


Jacques: A Memoir

by uragani



Series: The Spy Life [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Fluff and Smut, At least no romance, Burning, Calling Mann. Co out, Character Development, Character Study, Creepy Fucking Medics, Ephebophilia, Excessive Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Gutting, Heavy Baiting, Intel Snooping, M/M, Mostly Gen until the very end, Necrophilia, Original Character(s), Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rebelling Against the System, Scout Abuse, Secrets, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Violence, Spy Abuse, Suicide, Tattoos, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, Vivisecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uragani/pseuds/uragani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life and times of Jacques Hammer, a spy who serves in a private war over a useless piece of land, until during a temporary assignment, he sees his 17-year-old son. Unable to handle the shock, and dealing with the emotional side effects, he started botching his job. His sudden drop in quality doesn't suit his employers needs, and he's sent off to another part of the war, where he ends up in a place where the rules don't seem to matter as much. The men there show him that finding out you've been lied to is nothing compared to the hell that war could really be. When it all culminates in a horrible trauma, he ends up sent back to where it all started to stay with a company famed for getting the 'leftovers.' It just so happens to be where his greatest failure began, and where his son still stays...</p><p>This is the story of a version of canon Spy, and his years in the Gravel Wars from 1968-1972. It's going to be easily more than 100k words in length (when I finish-finish all the missing scenes, I'll have a proper number) and will include all tags eventually. I will warn especially for harder material by beginning chapter note so you can skip it without missing out on the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Hook, Line, and Sinker

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, hi new reader let me warn you what you're walking into. This story, and really series of stories that will follow, are the background for my version of Canon Spy, whom I have named Jacques simply to keep track of him in an environment with a lot of different spies. I've been RPing him for several months, and he-- expanded, like characters you write do, and gave himself a bunch of history. There's not only the original team (with yes, The Heavy, The Medic, everyone you know and love) but other versions (A completely OC team at another base, and a third later on). Please don't ditch just because of this, ditch because it's not a bright story. There's humor, but there's a lot of bad things that have happened to make my version of Canon Spy become who he is. Thank you for your patience with all this naming nonsense, and I'll strive to keep the originals as close to original as possible. 
> 
> This story was written for my Scout, Frankie, as well as NaNoWriMo 2014, which I have already won. I just have to finish up. Here's the beginning.

Finally after a long day of cavorting about, the slim, dark man found himself able to slip from the boldly lit stage, his retreat riddled with the noise of the scant few hundred applauding his efforts, deep into the muffled coolness behind the curtains. He wiped a few beads of sweat from what was visible of his brow and took a deep breath of the cooler air, delighting in the freedom for a moment. The onstage performance had taken the usual toll on his body. Hours of prancing and singing under the beating heat of the stage lights, wearing a black balaclava that concealed most of his features, making the other more stage-worthy mask stand out better as well as hiding his features.

Sometimes he wondered to himself if it was worth all this trouble to try and remain anonymous on a stage for goodness sake, rising in fame and popularity for his little quirk of a mask. Maybe instead of tempting fate, he should go back to the Private Eye gig he'd held down when he was younger. He snorted to himself, sidling comfortably down the little hallway behind the curtain, peppered with a few other actors getting ready for the finale's monologue. They all had a piece during the final dance between the charming woman and Death himself.

The fate of the woman onstage coincided rather rudely with his thoughts, and he laughed, ignoring the glances thrown his way. That pretty much answered him didn't it? A dance with Death. It'd always been his game in the end and without that little touch of fear in his day to day life he thought he'd get fat and lazy. Lose the love of life entirely. He shook his head, narrowly avoiding one of the younger girls chattering away and not looking where she was going. He had a short time now before he would be pulled back onto the stage to bow and cavort with the rest of them as the announcer listed off their character, and their names, to raucous noise. Or well, in his case a pseudonym, wearing a mask would hardly have a point if he was running around telling everyone his real name. Before all that mess though, he was getting himself some water, even if he had to kill another man for being in his way.

As it turns out, in his way was a woman. A petite little young one clutching a clipboard to her chest like armor, and daring to peek over it with her equally black-framed cat eye glasses. Stereotypical of the time, rather cute on her as they accented her almond shaped eyes quite well. She wore a purple A-frame dress that was all business, draping neatly enough to remain cute, but built to hide her form somewhat, to give her enough modesty that no one would particularly lust after her just for her so-called assets. Her hair was slightly out of place, black bangs framing her heart-shaped face and the rest done up in a messy bun that looked like someone had tried very hard to keep in line and failed. She clearly wanted to give a good impression, friendly yet strong.

"Hello," she said and he couldn't help but roll his eyes, an American as he thought from her look, just his luck, "I'm Ms. Pauling, and I've been sent with a proposal for you."

"Désolé," he said, voice heavy with impatience. He waved a palm at her dismissively as he tried to drive her off so he could pass on to his dressing room, "Je ne parle pas l'anglais." He lied, and inwardly flinched. He didn't like lying, it always led to bigger webs he couldn't control and hurt feelings.

"Really?" She said, tipping aside gracefully to let him into the room without exactly getting in the way, she did however stick a prim little foot in the door while peeking at her clipboard. "It says here you can speak English, Italian, Catalan, German-- well the list goes on."

He froze in the doorway clutching the frame for a moment, well, lies never usually caught up quite that fast. He stiffened and turned back with the coldest sneer he could muster while looking her up and down, "What do you want?"

"I come with a job offer," she beamed, cocking her chin up in a fashion he could read easily as a nearly playful challenge. Her brow cocked just enough to subtly offer the idea that she was bringing him a great treat and she thought he was a moron to try and stop her, "Reliable Excavation Demolition is looking for mercenaries to fight in a war."

His eyes flicked up to the rest of the hallway, scanning for signs of life in the area. Everyone had moved onto the stage but for a few stagehands, and none of them were particularly interested in what was going on behind the scenes when they had a show to manage. He nodded her into the room. She came in without question, silly girl God knew who he was really, and the closed the door behind them. He took no time to grab his water bottle, "Why," he asked, popping the lid, "Do you believe I would be interested in zat?"

"You seem to have quite the history in espionage," her eyes had dropped down, frowning at her clipboard a little bit like she needed to get her prescription checked. He made a note of it to tell her, and then dismissed the idea. She was making trouble for him. He wasn't going to mother her over her vision. Then the words clicked and his eyes darkened wondering how much she actually had written on that little board where anyone could read it, "Years in the theater, and skills on stage that belie an expertise way beyond what you do now. I assure you the pay is fabulous."

He toyed with the idea of killing her, but disposing of the body before going back on stage was really ultimately a too tight schedule and he wasn't in the mood. Anyways he sort of liked her. She'd wandered into the lair of a monster and instead of doing so out of naivety she'd done it knowing full well how easily he could have killed her. It was brave but...

"Look zat's very nice and all," he carefully moved to see what she'd do, watching her as he headed to the door. He was pleased when she stepped to the side to let him pass, she wasn't threatening him into this, "But if I wanted to go to a war, zey are hosting a very nice one over in Vietnam I could join. Very tropical I hear."

"This one is different," she said, raising her eyes to meet his and for a second he paused caught up in the look she was giving him. There was something like excitement in her eyes, something that said there were mysteries that he could solve and he liked that an awful lot, "We are hiring only 8 men."

He snorted in derision, "A short war zen, zey will kill each other right off ze bat," he flipped a wrist dismissively, the whole idea suddenly marked down as a sham, "Which makes me even less inclined to join." It sounded like a battle royale, and he was not going to murder for money just to have some old rich man laugh about the Greatest Game in his ear when he won and shoot him last.

"We plan to keep it going..." she checked her clipboard very thoroughly, drawing out the pause in a show of drama he could appreciate, "indefinitely."  She snapped the paper down with a sense of pride.

"Eh?" He lightened in disposition, intrigued despite himself. She had been right to look smug about something, this really was of interest.

"How would you like to cheat death?" His brows raised high enough to distort his mask's edging, and she smiled warmly, "I think your cue is about to happen. Go, think it over. Take this, and contact us if you change your mind." He jolted, recognizing the ending trill of the last group's final song, and dropped his bottle on the table after taking a long pull from it. She was not going to stop him from his mission damn it. She held out a strip of white paper, waiting patiently, and he took it glancing at the phone number on it. He gave her one last curious frown, but time was of the essence and he headed back to the stage at high speed. Wouldn't do to be completely out of position and have someone find him with a fairly young woman in his dressing room. The rumors alone...

He slid out of sight to the sound of her chirping from the door to his dressing room, and he realized he had absently trusted her to leave and close the door after herself. He shook his head, dipping into the darkness before going out into the light, behind himself hearing what he knew was going to end up a stroke of fate he would regret, "We're very much looking forward to your decision Monsieur Masquè!"

He was sure she was.


	2. Starts, Restarts, and Respawn Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Canon typical violence.

**RED 1968 - 1970**

**“Babes, I am so bored here that I don't think, since I've come, I've ever been more than three minutes away from some really astonishing act of violence.”**

**― Samuel R. Delany, Dhalgren**

 

His first day on the base and he still couldn't believe he'd been conned so professionally by the girl in purple. She'd grabbed onto his curiosity, shaken it like a belled feather in front of a cat, and of course he was doomed to trot after it to see what it was without really thinking. Hell, even if he did think; he had for hours and hours, agonizing before he finally picked up the phone. He'd called her, and the relief when he heard her voice had been-- weird. He hadn't been ready for that kind of commitment he thought, but here he was signing up for a war he knew nothing about. He was losing his entire life for this woman, for this war, and for what? Promise of pay that hadn't even included the niceties like numbers?

The call had gone well though he thought, she'd already done all the paperwork, all that was left was to stamp him through. He was perfect, she said, exactly what they were looking for. She just needed him to show up at some base in the middle of New Mexico somewhere. America. He hadn't planned on returning to America anytime soon, but she promised first class seating, told him it was all set up in the name of his new employer, Redmond Mann. She told him that he was safe, and even if they _had_ put his name down it would have been a brand new code name she'd picked out just for him. Jacques Hammer, he snorted to himself every time he remembered it. He hadn't had the heart to tell her the truth about that one.

Now here he was, furnished with his "kit" of items that he thankfully had been allowed to furnish parts of. He had his .50 revolver with the custom made for his grip and the important etching along the side. His favorite knife, which he'd gotten off a Russian at some point in the war and had become a symbol in his life from that point on. He had not however been able to keep his favored disguise kit, bought from Australia so many years ago. When he admitted to having one already they'd seemed somewhat surprised, then happy he'd already been buying Mann Co. brand, but in the end they furnished him with a brand new one, complete with a set of smokes and a team colored button. It came with his new uniform as well, a comfortable suit that supposedly carried a built in threading that Mann Co. brand systems used to amplify invisibility as well as allow for in-war holograms to alert his team to disguise changes, but it was far too red for his tastes and left him a flaming target. Admittedly not as bad as a few of his other so-called team mates...

His eyes raised, ah yes. His "team." He'd had a brief moment to chat with each of them, and the answer he came up with for what kind of people they were was a very simple declaration. They were a bunch of rowdy psychopaths. They ranged across the globe in terms of nationality and he didn't feel a particular kinship with any of them. A passive aggressive hick Texan, a shady Australian rifle user, a quiet Russian giant with a violent sense of humor, a crazed German doctor, a creature with no tongue, a drunken Scottish man in charge of explosives of all things, and... a child. He still didn't feel good about the last one being on the field with them, especially with the rocket launcher. Oh yes, and some class called a scout which appeared to be made approximately of 50% legs, 50% snappy mouth, and 100% narcissism. A bit young, but no more than anyone else called to war these days. Honestly he looked older than he had.

This sea of uselessly nervous and yet excited faces was supposed to be his team. He'd live by them, and die by them. That was probably what had them nervous. They'd all been run through scans, had things typed into computers, there was a procedure with anesthetic that had Spy highly uncomfortable about the amount of skin he'd had to show. Halfway up behind an ear, revealing the grey streaks in his hair, ugh. He was fairly sure they shot something metal into him too. With all the sarcasm he could bring to bear in his own mind, he joked with himself that the medic in charge of the procedure now knew too much, obviously, and would be dealt with later. That is, if they survived this run. They'd all been briefed that although it was too late to back out, since they'd signed over essentially their lives, that this "Respawn" system might not stick. It was not a good feeling.

This place was was called Upwards, which with all the towers around that you could see through the grated doors made sense. Upwards was, they told them, not going to be the _official_ beginning area. Somewhere called Teufort, or 2Fort, or something, was where they would be opening the official war games at in a few days. A place where newbies would be shuttled through, and taught about the whole scenario. Teams from all over the world, fitting the 9 classes they embodied, would train there and move on to span many different research outposts. They were here because they were testing respawn for the first time and no one wanted to clean up in those scant few days. They would be the first to see if the work of this unknown engineer behind the scenes would even work. On Upwards no less, which was never claimed to be just a newbie area. They hadn't even had the time to get a run through of the, well the higher ups called it a map. Field of battle would work he supposed. They'd gotten a quick video describing the place, about as shaky and annoying as one would expect from the era, and it didn't say much other than the goals were to get to the cart and stop it. The enemy was trying to get it past them, and something about all of it just-- made Spy uneasy. It was too professional, too neat, this didn't even feel like a war. Who had enemies that listened to timers?

"Setup begins," a voice echoed loudly over the speakers. The soldier next to him saluted at nothing, and Jacques gave the man an odd little look. What kind of man would salute a speaker? It's not as if it could see him. Unless he knew something he didn't. His paranoia was running rampant with all this new information. The heavy's gun started clicking behind him, dropped into position and ready to fire the moment the gates opened. That was annoying, he'd have to get used to that. Not to mention a little disturbing since the heavy was standing _right behind him_. Although for annoyance factor, the sound was easily rivaled by the scout who was already trying to run ahead, slamming his bat across the metal doors in front of him. He was yowling obnoxiously since they hadn't opened yet to allow them set up against this BLU team on the other side. The names were such sloppy backronyms... Redmond Mann and Blutarch Mann, yes sure, they didn't come up with the names Reliable Excavation Demolition and Builders League United for any reason at all. He supposed it was kind of funny that the men had been named for colors in the first place.

"Gentlemen," Spy said aloud, lighting a cig as the doors opened to allow them on the field, "I bid you good luck." And with a flourish of his cloaking watch, standard issue, he disappeared. He also didn't move, because he really didn't have to. The heavy let out a magnificent roar! Between him, the loud Scottish drunk, and the runner, they were the loudest bunch on the field. They tore out of the building with little thought to what they were going to face at the other end. Although the scout would likely have better reason to get out there first than the other two might, after all it was his job to scope out the field as soon as possible and all that. The sniper also lumbered out at quite a pace, and Spy tilted his head watching the man go. Wearing crocodile teeth and all the accoutrements of an Australian, but lacking their standard facial hair. How awkward for him, he was sure he'd been teased endlessly for that one. Maybe it was a dietary deficiency?  

The soldier, the engineer, and the pyro all moved much slower. The pyro took to the shadows like the spy might have, swinging wide and dipping into the buildings, the sneaking hints of fire licking across the wood that refused to burn. The whole place had been treated to stop him simply burning everything down to find people. That was have been quite the quick work actually, no wonder they stopped it. The soldier was busily yelling orders. Lots of them, and none of them made sense. He supposed they made sense to the man under his helmet but otherwise it was for naught. With an explosion of noise he was airborne with a suddenness that made up for all the apparent insanity. Spy stared up after him for a long moment, gazing at the rocket powered jumper as he plummeted towards the ground. He shook his invisible head and made a personal note to be utterly sure never to stand near him if he didn't want a rocket launcher to the face out of no where.

He stepped back from watching the careless descent of the other man just in time to let the engineer pass him without touching. Absolutely absent in his movement, he was used to avoiding being touched, and the man lumbered at a slow pace so it wasn't much of an issue anyways. It seemed the Texan was off to find himself a spot to raise hell against the opposite team. Jacques was instantly made sure of that idea because of the way the other laughed when he put down a strange contraption near the front of their base. Although he had no idea what the man was up to, he had a guess somehow this would tie into the so called Sapper he'd been given. Engineers were supposed to have something mechanical didn't they? And he'd been trained in the use of the sapper against something called sentries that were supposed to shoot him in the face if he wasn't careful.

His timer ran out on his cloak, the soft sound of decloaking and the smoky barrier clearing to leave him peacefully settled in a now empty base. Empty except the dark haired man whose class was supposedly called the medic. He seemed oddly nervous for a wartime doctor, peeking around the door with more than a bit of timidity. Glasses, Spy made a note of those, and gloves to cover his hands. He had a syringe gun (clearly homemade, not Mann Co issue at all) and a bone saw but nothing else particularly helpful. Oh but for of course a little box of medical supplies that would _supposedly_ tide them over until they died, and were reborn. No one needed to be truly healed on a field where it was easier to die and come back than wait for a doctor to fidget over you.

"You don't zink zey need me yet do you?" He asked, looking back with a grin that seemed electric with interest as much as nervous. Maybe he'd misjudged the man a little.

Spy took a deep intake of his cig, puffing out the moke slow alongside his words as he waited for his cloaking device to recharge, "Go on and find out why don't you? You have weapons, make yourself useful before ze battle ends without you."

The man glanced down at his weapon as if reminded about it, only to sigh, "I need a faster method of healing after seeing zose weapons!" He grabbed another med kit from the supply closet and pulled a wry face at the Spy. Then brightened, "But zen! It is time for MEDICINE!" And with those oh so encouraging words, the man bounded off into the middle distance like a little fawn hooting with good humor and interest even as bullets hailed past him. The war was already in mid swing it seemed.

Spy waited until his cloak was fully recharged, making sure the wild pack of men ahead of him were all a fair measure away. He didn't want them to trip him up, or shoot him by accident when he took on the opposing team's form. After a moment of contemplation, he chose to slide along the same route the pyro had taken. Blackened marks licked the walls, it wasn't hard to follow behind that sort of trail and the (possible) lunatic seemed to have a good idea of where he was headed. How, Spy had no idea. None of them had had foreknowledge of the arena, but it was moving like it could taste people on the air. He shouldn’t be surprised, the thing gave him the creeps for a reason.

The countdown went off before he was in position, a loud blaring noise that catches him in a doorway and his first instinct is to cloak. To give himself that last little bit of time to get the hell out of there. He does cloak, of course, instinct is rarely a joke in war considering the need for split second timing. He’d learned that a long time ago. It’s a good instinct, because moments later a man’s severed head flies past him still trying to scream and he jolts back wide eyed. They hadn’t been on the field more than a minute or two. They hadn’t-- that man hadn’t lived longer than five minutes at most. If this had been a real war, that would have been it, that would have-- that was the child-like man with a rocket no less.

He catches himself choking, and shakes it off. His eyes close, he swallows deep, he sets himself apart from the world and its horrors. War was worse than this, not wrapped in bubble gum wrapping that looked bright and colorful even as it failed to describe the death and blood in advance. This was so much less, so much more at the same time. He slid to the door, and forced his eyes open, raising his chin to watch.

His teammates were out there. He’d had a scant few hours to know them, to learn about them, and they were on the field right now. He knew them by photos, by classes, by what he’d seen before this all started. He saw them moving, and he saw them dying in front of him. Horribly. The other team was suffering losses as well, heavy casualties on both sides. But he forced himself to get a good look. To watch a man he knew only as the nickname Heavy be torn apart by machinegun fire from the opposite team, to see the soldier run madcap past him, having just died, having already died multiple times if the number of corpses were to be believed.

He flickered his eyes up, and caught the sniper from his own team, perched in a high place. He hesitated,  then a crack of weaponry went off, and he jolted to look across the field where the man was aiming. A head blew up like a melon. He could hear him discharging the hot bullet casing, and replacing it. Well, he thought to himself, after the initial bloodspray, this was actually fairly numbing. At least he thought so before one of the soldier bodies, clearly still alive, pulled itself past with his lower half missing and guts dragging. Spy retched daintily behind the door frame just because of the shock and distress. That could happen to him and he didn't want to. He straightened afterwards though with a tenseness to his shoulders.

Alright, he thought wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, enough of this being a big baby about it. He’d committed worse atrocities. He’d eaten things smarter than the men dying in front of him. He’d be fine. He sighed, and cloaked, slipping out the front door in order to head for the cart trollying up the hill, pushed by the opposite team. He counted, and then slid up behind them, uncloaking at the same time that he disguised as their missing teammate. One or two glanced back but he acted as if he were jogging up fresh out of respawn. After they looked away, he chose his target and positioned himself for the killing blow, taking his time as the disguise kit never ran out.

It was the first kill from a spy, and the response was kind of amusing in retrospect. He, disguised as a pyro, slammed his knife into the base of the skull of the soldier in front of him and dropped the man like a sack of potatoes. It seemed to take them a few moments before they noticed the cart was heavier to push due to the sudden lack of a teammate helping, and when they did he was still among them. Still looking like their pyro. A stab here, a cut there, he whipped his way through their number. Really, to be honest, doing this was the best way to get himself to calm down. He skittered among them, neatly dodging the light of a sniper’s rifle, and cloaking. A few steps, and he was out of the line of fire and waiting. When no bullet rang past, he decided to prepare himself for another burst.

He pulled back into a doorway, and adjusted his unseen tie as his body resumed its former shape. In the door, out the door, and he no longer wore the body of the pyro. For the brief second he was owner of that body, he had hated it rather deeply. It felt constricting, and too different and wrong for him to wear. He’d use it, of course anyways. He was stronger than a little disgust. Despite that feeling, he was left with one other important thought. His mind bore a question in mind: Where had that pyro in particular gone anyways? He hadn’t seen a corpse for it lying around anywhere. The soft footfalls behind him went unnoticed, he was cloaked, he’d just step to the side. He had a few moments left and if they were just passing through he’d go into the building from where they had come from, and hide in the space they'd just checked. Simple enough. Then he smelled heat, and turned to face fire that burned out his cloak in seconds.

It engulfed him in ways he did not expect. He hadn't realized how much he'd _feel_ when the flames found their mark and devoured him. The skin went from too hot, to whiting out from being burned away in seconds. All that was left was the smell of burnt hair, cloth, flesh. That and the agonizing burning pain of his remaining nerves along the outside of the burn, all screaming together as one. He gasped reflexively, drawing in scorching hot air and burning the lining of his esophagus as he fell towards the ground, pain throbbing away to nothing. His brain overloaded, there simply was too much to deal with, too much pain, then too much nothing. Far too much of these sharp, bright, dancing lights. His eyes went blind, darkness ate into him as swiftly as the fear and flames had. He couldn't breathe, his throat was too crisped, he couldn't feel the muscles in his throat anymore, couldn't make them click with so much as a swallow. Nothing wanted to move. He floundered-- and the shock as well as the loss of flesh must have stopped his heart because the next second he was standing in respawn vomiting colorfully on the ground.

He was shaky, weak. His hands trembled when he raised them to look them over for burns, already half terrified of what he could find despite the fact that his eyes were working again. All the previous damage was, as promised, gone. It felt like a hallucination, but the pain had been so real. The smell had been so strong. There was a tiny electrical tingle still trailing across his skin that made him shudder. Of course spies weren't really valuable enough as a class on the field to warrant a prespawn. He'd been told that already, that while some of the others would be brought back before they even died like the soldier, he'd have to actually die to come back. So there was no skipping into the next brain over like the other men might, blissful and comfortable as a lamb never feeling the moment of death, no, he got the pure thing down to the wire. A thought struck him deeply, he could have died like that, and never woken up if his chip hadn't worked. His stomach rolled again at the fear and memories, and he wobbled to the trash, shoving his head in with another wretched noise. They'd warned them respawn sickness might be a thing. They hadn't explained exactly how in depth dying was going to be.

He didn't want to go back out there.

The feeling was extremely strong, it enveloped him in muscle freezing denial. Going back out there meant facing the pyro again. Meant more of those flames, bullets too. If burning to death hurt so badly, he could only think how much other forms of death would feel, at least _burning_ was quick. Bleeding out from a bad shot, unable to get to a medkit or call out for help... He held his gloved hand to his chest, feeling his heart sputtering a mile a minute. Someone appeared behind him and he pulled back away from the trash about the same second that the engineer took his place. At least someone else was as miserably afflicted by returning to life as he was. That was a small comfort though.

"Oh, boy howdy. I ain't never felt bullet spray from two guns at the same time before and I ain't too pleased to know how it feels!" The man groaned, pushing away from the soiled bin. Spy made a face at the mental image, well that just put a cherry on top of his already uncomfortable thoughts and daydreaming.

"I burned to death," he said simply, sniffing and adjusting his sleeve as if it didn't mean anything. He didn't want to go back out, he didn't want to _so badly_. The truth had to be written all over his face as much as he tried to wave it off, to look unfazed, because the other man looked at him for a long second, watching, and then shook his head.

His tone was apologetic when he spoke, "Shame we're all gonna get used to this shit ain't it? Hell of a way to play a game, or fight a war or whatever bullsheet they're throwin' in about this. Pretty sure that they ain't got everythin' properly aligned yet neither, so it's gonna feel worse before it gets better."

"... It's going to be fixed?" Spy blinked, looking at him in hope.

"Didn't you hear 'em bitchin' over the comms?" The man slipped to the resupply, digging out bullets and reloading his gun. So that was his actual weapon, a shotgun, "The thing ain't catchin' us early enough. And we ain't supposed to get the full package like that. Supposed to be a bit muted, else how the fuck they gonna get us on the field again knowin' what it's like? Easier to herd cats."

"Oh sacre bleu, I would give my left nut-- well perhaps not literally," he wrinkled his nose. Who knew what Mann Co. would do with an offer like that. They'd already shown a deep desire to abuse whatever they'd been knowingly given. The other man laughed, and slapped a thigh like every country stereotype Spy knew. It was weird, how each of these people fit this sort of image of what was expected from their homelands. He supposed he did the same, and over time they'd start seeing more of who they were rather than what they were clearly picked to represent.

"Well back to the front, maybe the 8th time is a charm!" He gave the Spy a wry smile, and left through the front doors. Spy shuddered and looked after him gripping his own arm. Eight times. That was a stronger man than he was at this moment. The engineer had earned a quick round of respect, given easily to anyone who could deal with that. He must've had a hell of a life before he got here. Jacques stopped, let himself focus on the air drawn into his lungs. Cool, peaceful, not even the feeling of fading pain he thought might linger, just normal, just plain breathing as always. He let himself put the memory down instead of continuing to play with it like a child. It happened, it was a memory, it was over. Now he knew there would be no trace but for memories, and by God he knew he could put that away. Spy fingered his weapons, and pulled his knife out of his jacket. With a set jaw he slipped out of the respawn doors heading towards the sounds of fighting once again, ready. He shifted into the form of the opposite team's engineer since his own team's engineer had so much strength, and seeing it was so fresh in his mind. He was going to need some of that strength right now, even if it was symbolism alone. This was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

  

He’d managed to get back on the field that day, and even though he hated it, he continued. Each time he died, the same meal was in his stomach as he’d eaten that morning. Every time he died, sick into the trash which emptied itself apparently at the same time his body was collected. Life, death, vomit. Eight times that day alone, over and over, then the rest of that week just added to the toll. He was miserable, he hated death, and it only made him fight that much harder to stay alive on the field. He grabbed medikits whenever he had a chance, practically strangled people by hand when his ammo was low and a knife wouldn’t suffice. He learned to hate death, and really maybe that was the point behind it that no one was supposed to see.

But that was life now, get sick in the can, keep moving. Slowly it eased up, each death felt less painful, less like he was feeling it in high definition, every nerve tensed and ready to receive pain he could now fundamentally understand and categorize. He could tell you the size of the bullet by the pain he felt before he went down. He could tell what weapon was used almost in instinct, and that let him pinpoint who was killing him before death so he could go do them the favor of exploring this new sense themselves on the point of his knife as soon as life returned to him.

He hated it, but after a while the runs for the trash didn’t seem so urgent. He stopped panicking when he died, and the only reason for the sickness was the wild few moments he had come to recognize as seeing the world through a teammate’s eyes. It was discombobulating, and he was fairly the sure reason for the sickness was something like car sickness. A sudden change from serious death, to running around inside someone else with no control at the wrong height and then sudden stops were not good on the constitution.

But, at the same time, when he took a moment to rest in the respawn room before he threw himself into his work again, Jacques had started watching his teammates. At first they’d all seemed miserable. Even after work, the showers were tight with tension, the mess hall rung with barely concealed displeasure. It had the constant feel of a powder keg ready to blow them all sky high, just one wrong move, just one jostled elbow or chew too loud. They’d been sick as he was, and it was wearing on their nerves, killing morale.

At first he’d worried that he’d be regarded as weak, and honestly he felt it was a weakness to collapse so readily into nausea, but then they’d all done so. Every single day, the entire pack would rush to the same bin after death, unless they were particularly suicidal or stupid like the soldier. Then they rushed outside, vomited in a bush, and kept going. Spy had had a very unfortunate moment of finding one of these little spots wholly by accident and had been glad to die just to get the wet off his shoe.

Time passed though, and some of them were getting over it. A few dry heaves here and there, but a lot of them were getting better. Same as he was, he supposed they weren’t feeling the pain of death as keenly. The first time someone spoke up in the mess room was a shining moment. The first rat tail in the shower he highly disapproved of, but it got them going. Happier than he’d seen them so far. He may not have known them, or even liked them very much, but seeing them cavort happily around was better than the sorrowful mess he’d been dealing with at first glance.

After that, the war was less like hell. He’d been worried, the first few weeks had been inhumane torture. Their morale was sending them sagging, neither side wanted to be particularly victorious. Mutiny would have raged any day now, but as time passed they cheered up. The moment everyone seemed to be in a good mood, cracking jokes over the comms, starting to develop their own slang, Spy knew that this war could be something different. A fight over gravel it may have been, but these men alongside him were bonding as a family before his very eyes.

Jacques considered the road before him. He’d signed a contract for the next four years. He wasn’t sure what some of the others had chosen. He was fairly sure however that the soldier had signed away his life forever, while the demo had tried for freelancing, allowed to be paid whenever he showed up for the job. If he himself had been on that kind of contract, he would have taken a while off to wait for respawn to be recalibrated. But the man had bullied his way through. He supposed it was the heavy drinking in hindsight. A man who drank like that, could hardly be heavily affected by feeling a little sick to his stomach.

Four years in this war would change him, he recognized that straight away. He’d found himself a place to roost, and people to be with. They’d alter how he behaved towards them, and teach him things he never knew. They were, after all, all different. Horribly different and yet they worked well together. At the end of this little venture he’d be forty-six. He recognized he was giving away a chunk of his life in this service, but for the money-- ah yes, the money. The vast sums of money. That was one of the reasons he’d joined up in the first place and when he finally saw the numbers...

The girl hadn’t been kidding when she said they’d be paid handsomely. The first check nearly made him bite through his lip to hide the grin. It was such a vast sum that he could barely understand it as a concept. All he knew was the number was so high, that he could retire on that alone. Using it safely, he’d be good for years. Greed instantly could keep him here, let alone the weapons, and the lust for killing. He’d always had a niggling feeling of guilt about murdering people outside of this place. They stayed dead, they just-- stopped. He’d watched it often enough. Sometimes in closer quarters than he would ever have admitted comfortable. But here? He could kill them endlessly, the same person, and never really feel like he’d done anything wrong. In the end, it really did feel more like a game than a war.

So he died. Again and again. Decided it wasn’t so bad. Then something new happened.

The familiar walls of respawn met his vision as he woke up from another unfortunate death, and he prepared to make his standard run for the trash can, but hesitated. There was a little bit of a woobly uneasiness in his stomach but otherwise he felt fine. He took a testing step, sometimes the shift in balance would trigger it more strongly. Nothing. He glanced around for anyone watching and then sort of hopped in place a few times putting his newfound power to the test. His stomach contents remained contained and didn’t show any sign of attempted escape. He barely felt the dizzy heat in his head that usually combined with the nausea. His eyebrows raised, and a grin shot across his mouth. It was week five of the Gravel War, and his respawn sickness had finally, but finally, stopped.

He was whistling and twirling his knife busily when he trotted back out on the field. The dangerous little gleam to his eyes read quite clearly one of a man newly possessed of some secret power. This was amazing, to him, a brand new lease on life. No more hurling, and the pain of death barely registered anymore so long as they got a clean attack. The edges were benumbed just enough near the end not to be horrible. A good five second padding between him and the end. He was free with this, and that knowledge gave him such a hop and a skip to his step out on the field that his team destroyed the BLUs that afternoon by a severe amount, leading to a quite happy impromptu party that evening. Spy cooked, something he hadn’t done in ages, and his teammates learned that they should probably blackmail and beg him to do so more often. Who knew the Frenchman could spin such a good meal out of their rations?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if that one was a bit too heavily expositional to be enjoyable. Now that I have the setting up done however, the next few chapters are-- marginally better! Thank you for reading.


	3. Cloak and Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spy gets a hold of The Cloak and Dagger and no one likes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Canon typical violence.

Right after he’d joined this war he’d scribbled onto a nice little order sheet, and managed to purchase himself some fine items for low, low prices. At first he figured it was one of those things that would take his money, mysteriously keep charging him, and never really send the things. Then again, he had found it in his favorite magazine, the Dapper Cadaver. They tended to have a rather rigorous check and balance system in place, for instance if many of the assassins who read the magazine didn’t get what they bought, the person who was to blame got a special order death. It made for happy clientele more often than not, knowing that any problems would have an expedited solution.

So the box arriving with his name on it a few weeks of fighting later had been forgotten about entirely while in transit. In fact, he’d given up on all hope of ever seeing it so quickly, that when he opened the box he was confused as to what he actually had in his hands at the moment. Then common sense kicked in, because Spy actually tried to have at least one common mortal superpower going at any give time, and he realized in his hands, he held the device known as the Cloak and Dagger.

The watch was a digital watch with a square frame in gold, a leather cuff made to imitate some sort of scaled leather, and three little buttons on the front. Jacques slipped the watch onto his wrist, admiring how it fit in place like it was designed just for him. A small glance at the instruction manual, a simple little note card, and he pushed the buttons. The feeling of it overriding the hidden material twisted into his suit was slightly different than the disguise kit, something colder and sharper that shivered through the fabric like a living touch and then settled like a heavy warm glove. He raised his hand, invisible even to himself. He slipped a finger over another button, and that changed, the slightest outline showing where he was. A ‘team mode’ for use on the field, similar to the one in his disguise kit that showed him wearing a mask to avoid the natural fuck- ups that could come along with perfection.

He kicked back on the nearest lounge reading aloud from the manual in a French drawl the likes of which were illegal for crimes against sarcasm in several nations, “‘Ze Cloak and Dagger, is created for the unique playstyle...’ Oh oui, unique. It’s called murder, and really, playstyle?” He chuffed loudly peeking at the device before continuing.

“‘Zis watch affords a limitless cloaking,’ oui zat would be why I bought it,” he flicked through the pages lazily, “Limits, limits… If I pick something up, ze cloak glitches slightly, less zan when I am hit.” He makes a face at the idea of being shot while cloaked anyways. He hated the little red jolts of light.

“Ze owner becomes slightly less transparent with a slight electrical flare, zen remains cloaked so long as zey are in contact,” he pauses, and eyes the watch, “So I can pretend to be a ghost. Well, Halloween will be fun. Works for people too apparently, zat will be interesting. Blah blah blah, hon hon hon, something something…” He imitated a talking mouth with his hand, clearly bored of reading already, then froze peering at the pamphlet, “Oh, I can get other people under ze cloak if I play my cards right, and it doesn’t turn off immediately when it runs out... Okay, zis is a good watch.”

He glanced at the stock watch sitting nearby on a table and frowned, “Mmn, you were never zat handy were you?” He sat in quiet contemplation, thinking about how his games usually went with the other watch. He barely touched it really, using disguises more because they lasted longer giving him better time to work. Admittedly, he had to ditch the disguises quickly after stabbing, because no one believed them once they saw a kill happen and being in another body was disorientating, but it worked. The cloaking he did with the invisibility watch lasted, what, ten breathless seconds in which he had to run his ass off and use it sparingly? Even with the dispensers helping keep it going, the damn thing didn’t do much to save him.

This watch… His morning alarm went off, and he flicked his cool gaze in the direction of the clock chiming nine. It was time to get out on the field. He honestly hadn’t believed this would be a nine to five job, what war would be that neat, but here he was… He gave the watch at his wrist one last firm polish, grabbed his jacket, and headed out towards the field. Time to give her a field test, see what mischief he could get up to.

The first time he uses it is in the ‘cage’ waiting for the doors to crank open and let them out to set up. He cloaks, and there’s a dark laugh from one of his teammates, the young scout, “Guess he’s gonna waste his cloak, real useful.”

Jacques ducks his head, letting out a sharp burst of air that would have to do as a snort. The first ten seconds of the countdown pass, and he glances around at himself. Still invisible, just as promised.

“Who care,” drawled the heavy, “Dis is tiny spy. Is no problem. We fight better dan sneak.”

Jacques flatly ignored them as a discussion rolled into town, becoming a series of insults. For some reason the entire pack had taken to mild dislike, likely because his counterpart had a bad habit of disguising as him before he stabbed them. Seeing red before you died, yeah, probably made you distrust your own spy after a while. He chose to focus on the watch. His breathing didn’t seem to affect it, and he ducked down a few times. Even that movement didn’t seem to take the meter down any.

“WE NEED,” snarled the soldier, aiming his rocket at the Heavy, “EVERY RED SOLDIER TO BE AT THE TOP OF HIS OR HER GAME. ARE YOU AWARE WE ARE A TEAM LIL PRINCESS?”

“Da, but iz only leetle spy. He hide all of battle, stab one or twice, big deal,” the heavy scoffed, waving a massive meaty hand.

The conversation flew right over his head. Mostly because while testing, Spy was doing a silly little dance in place. When he realized the absurdity of it, he silently blessed the invisibility for rendering this well out of his teammate’s sight. They would think him an utter fool. But more importantly the results came in, nothing. He’d been keeping his feet still though.

“THE FRENCHIE MAY BE A COWARD, AND YOU MAY BE ABLE TO SMELL HIM ACROSS THE FIELD, AND HE MAY NEVER SHOW HIS YELLOW- BELLY TO THE OTHER TEAM,” the soldier yelled loudly, making Spy shake his head, “BUT THE FROG IS REQUIRED FOR SURGICAL DEFENSES. YOU ARE HARDLY SNEAKY, FATSO.”

He stepped forward, partially as a test and partially to step away from the soldier bellowing in his ear. The cloak meter discharged slightly. About as much as his old one had. He resumed holding still and it filled back up in moments. He grinned brightly, oh yes he could deal with this. Twenty seconds had passed.

“Oi, why hasn’t ‘e come back,” the sniper rumbled from his position in the lineup, perched up high because he always left last and could afford to sit down and wait.

“Eh?” the heavy asked, turning to blink at him.

“‘is cloakin’ usually lasts loike, uh, less,” the man mumbled ending lamely, suddenly quieter when eyes were on him, “‘e gets about 10 seconds out onto the field ‘fore he goes solid all of a sudden and oi can clip the bugger.”

The countdown for the last 30 seconds before prep echoed into the silence, and Spy’s sense of danger went off like an anvil when he realized what they were likely to do to respond to an invisible, missing, teammate. He dropped flat to the ground, ignoring the possible damage to his suit just as several melee weapons started flailing around looking for him. It seemed not only did he have good instincts, but Heavy, the scout, Soldier, and Demo all took mighty offense to the fact he wasn’t showing up like he should be.

A bat whooshed over him where his head had been, “How the hell is he doin’ this?!” the scout demanded, “Think he’s cheatin’?”

“Da! Must be!” the heavy yowled, swinging his fists around looking for the man, “Maybe he sneak out?”

“IF THAT FROG DONE LEFT BEFORE THE BUZZER, HE’S A CHEATIN’ BASTARD,” Soldier howled, swinging the rocket launcher around. He slammed it into the heavy’s back just as Spy scrambled for the door to press up against the frame beside the opening in relative safety. The heavy took a bear swipe at the soldier, and moments later they were fighting.

Demo drunkenly slammed his bottle into a doorway, creating a quick melee weapon with the pointy end exposed. He stabbed around himself protectively, “Lads, I ain’t fair pleased the with idea of a true spook. I ain’t a bairn, but,” the man hiccuped morosely, “Ghosts! Spirits of the damned! Perhaps respawn didnae take him and now he’s a haint! Hauntin’ the lot of us! I hate spooks.”

The engineer shook his head at all the yelling from his spot near the sniper, “New watch,” he said cutting across everyone with reasonable answers, “Didn’t ya’ll see? I guess yer buggered for mechanical observations,” he took his sweet ass time explaining, reaching up to pull his helmet off and scratch. He heaved himself down with a grunt and grabbed his box, “but it t’was gold ‘n’ leather, brand spankin’ new model. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s got some new fancy tricks.”

The rest of the team froze in the middle of their fighting for a long moment, for the heavy had his hands around Demo’s necks, and the scout was about to slam Soldier in the helmet. After the explanation, they let each other go just as the countdown reached the end of the line. Most of them gave up on the new fun and got ready to leave. Soldier however squinted around the room as if he expected the spy to pop out of anywhere and stab him. Jacques rolled his eyes from his hiding spot, so much distrust of a man who was contracted to their side.

“STILL DON’T TRUST HIM,” he declared, “BUT AS HIS SUPERIOR OFFICER, I REQUIRE HIM TO USE THIS NEW VOODOO MAGIC WELL TODAY.” He rampaged out of the front doors after the rest of them, hollering some nonsense battle cry as he went.

Spy rolled his eyes a second time, and slipped out the doors too, barely waiting. For once, he didn’t need to move slow. He moved in increments, sticking to the wide open areas of battle. Normally, he followed the same paths as pyros. They were a sneak and attack class, he’d come to learn. Their best attacks came from surprising the enemy, a sudden burst of flame when there’d been nothing before? It was creepy, which helped battle morale, and better than that it was sneaky. Spy needed sneaky when he couldn’t stay hidden as long as he liked.

But now? He stood in the middle of the field, perched on the hillside that the opposite team was always sure to come up, and waited. The spiral of track along the front of the cliffside gave plenty of opportunities to set up for a stab, but he’d never had the luxury of being able to use it. After all it was pretty visible from a distance, and anyone coming up on it would see him. Normally he had to stay in a building nearby, sneak up, stab, and get out of the way before he was noticed because he couldn’t recloak. He stood boldly in the sun, gazing out over the field.

He was free. No more limits on attacking, no more fear. No more playing the character of one of the BLU’s wrong and getting outed. While it hadn’t been much of a problem in the first place, it still felt like freedom. The cart squeaked in the distance and he perked up, turning to look over the edge. There were 4 BLUs swarming the cart like angry little bumblebees, shooting at anything they could see while pushing as hard as they could. Their scout was just as loud as the RED’s he could tell from here. But more importantly, he was standing in full view and none of them were even aware of it.

Jacques jumped down the level, a large drop really, but he rolled with it and scampered to the side, letting the harried crew go past him as his own team shot down on them from above. He waited, peaceful, and allowed them to pass before he edged up on them from behind. Slow. Patient. Taking his time picking out a victim.

A knife found the back of the pyro, and he was cloaked before they hit the ground, he bounced out and to the right, narrowly avoiding a shotgun blast from the alert scout standing on top of the cart. He took the last user’s place, and reached up… slash, the scout’s ankle exploded blood and he hauled him down, neatly backstabbing the base of his skull. They were alert now, but he was off the cart, invisible, moving again. He hovered around them like he was orbiting them, and then--  another strike. The useless sniper had looked away, and why he was down on the cart anyways Spy didn’t know. Really, why bother when you could be keeping an eye on the team from above and avoid the whole mess?

It didn’t hurt to have another swift kill though, and he rapidly took out the heavy doing a majority of the grunt work before he even bothered to cloak again. Instant kills, constant movement, infinite cloaking. Really this was just shooting fish in a barrel. He barely had to try. In fact he was hanging off the moving cart with the last two people, a soldier class who was keeping his head down and working hard, and a medic, who was giving a timid little look around, as if he knew he’d be next and was wriggling his melee weapon dramatically as if to ward him away. Well, almost the last two.

Even now he could hear the scout coming back on a dust cloud of rage, “Oi!” he was yelling, “There’s fucking spy! Kill the fucking spy! What the hell are they payin’ you for if you don’t see the god damn spy?!” Jacques casually jumped off the cart as it went up around the curve and started up hill. The soldier made some halfassed shot, before going back to work. Spy pretended to file his nails, silent and invisible enough that no one else could see the gesture, so it was all just him stroking his own ego at the time he could suddenly take. He sighed, dramatically, and watched the scout’s face as he tried to stop, tried to figure out where the sudden noise had come from. The kid was moving too fast to stop, and just as the scout passed, Jacques stuck out his foot.

The boy’s legs tangled as he went over the invisible Italian leather, knees slamming into the ground first before his hands took the brunt of the weight. He skidded on the gravel, bandages tearing and unwinding a little before his face bucked into the dirt, breaking out several teeth. He groaned, but Spy had already begun to pounce, stabbing him in the back while he was laying face first in the dirt. The young BLU never even had a chance. He was under cover again not a second later. It was--  painfully easy.

Killing the soldier when the medic looked away was a simple task. Another quick stab sent the helmeted man into the dirt just behind the mechanical conveyance, and his quick fingers sent the disguise kit into action. His body shifted and widened into the soldier’s body, a flicker of lights heralding the change which faded just as the medic peeked back again. Cover-up was simple, he stepped back, no longer pushing the cart to halt it. After all, continued forward movement would have revealed the corpse spread out on the track waiting to fade to his prey. The medic gave him a funny look at the pause, opening his mouth to say something. He solved that too, raising his gun and point-blank shooting him in the face. The doctor went down, bloody spray coating the track as Spy stepped out of the way to simply let the cart roll down the hill again, making a clicking noise as it headed back the way it came over sandy ground stained by the recently collected Soldier body.

A soft groan alerted him to the fact that the newest kill wasn’t a kill yet. Spy silently padded closer, peering at the Doctor as he slowly rolled trying to scramble to his feet. The rubber boots scraped uselessly at the sand, trying to get a grip with the toes as the man’s back arched under the white of his coat. Too easy a target. Spy took this moment to slip one of his cigarettes into his mouth, lighting up even as he kicked the man in the side, making him grunt in pain. He rolled onto his back, spreadeagle with half his face missing and ear torn loose. The remaining blue eye looked up through his broken glasses, fearful.

He descended on his prey stabbing him in the chest, aiming for the heart, and angling up so that he hefted so hard the medic’s entire body jolted backwards in the sand a little. The dark haired man grabbed onto his arm, weak under the blue rubber gloves, staring up at him for the last few moments before he faded. The gleam to his eyes weakened, that significant spark going out, and Spy dropped the body suddenly disinterested. The last little gesture he bothered with the corpse was pulling his knife free to wipe on the doctor’s nice black pants.

By the time the other members were returning, warily and with much casual air shooting, Spy had gone up and behind the dramatic cliffside turn to wait closer to the top of the structure. A place that allowed him a bird’s eye view and if he laid on his belly in the dust, a wonderful front seat to the BLU team bitching their hearts out.

“Spy is too stonk!” growled the heavy as he waddled his way back up the track with his freshly revived medic at his heels, clearly having been called to the cart with a personal request. He stopped a good few feet away looking over the cart with brows knitted and a snarl on his lips. He adjusted his stance, and raised Natasha. The large man fired aimlessly across the entire stretch, moving quite quickly to cover ground. Spy smiled at his forethought to get the hell out of where they were expecting him. They’d brought the big guns, but it didn’t matter if they couldn’t hit him.

“Ja! Zis new cloak, it goes for too long! I never saw him except when he was in disguise!” The medic was hanging back, looking grouchy about the whole situation. At least he’d grasped there was a difference in appliances.

“Hudda!” Snarled the pyro, lunged ahead of the two lollygaggers to blow flames all over the place, dancing around the cart with erratic movements to speedily cover the entire area, same as the heavy had done.

The tiny headpiece hidden in their ears was crackling in rage from someone on the team only channel. Who that particular someone was became apparent as the angry looking BLU scout ran up for a third time, firing everywhere he so much as felt could have a spy, “--and for another thing fuck this! Fer serious? We ain’t got time for a spy who can do whateva he wants. He coulda be anywhere!” He whipped his gun upwards, firing into the cliffside. Spy ducked as the ground next to him blew into the air from the shot below. Dirt clods dropped somewhere behind him with a few thuds, and he slowly pried open his eyes. Spy found himself staring at the new hole, the kid had missed him by inches. Went to show how perceptive he was without knowing it.

“Da, we will smash spy, scare him?” The heavy asked, throwing his chin up as he looked around making his threats.

“I don’t think that’s gonna be possible, I mean fuck, it’s a spy right? Those creepy bastards have weird kinks. Yanno hittin’ him might actually get him off or somethin’ if yah catch my drift.”

The heavy looked blankly down at the scout, until the boy rubbed his nose with a thumb and looked disgruntled, “A’ course ya don’t. You know back in Philly you woulda had to catch onto the lingo a lot faster than this. Repeat after me, tha spy after bein’ hit, is likely,” he made illustrative handgestures, “boppin’ tha baloney. Yanno, crankin’ the shank, walkin’ tha dog, pounding your flounde--”

“Leetle scout will stop making up da masturbatory phrases, or will smash instead,” The heavy said, almost companionable the way he smiled, and nodded, brows drawn up affectionately. The way his gloved fist slammed into his palm however spoke a different language. The scout wilted.

“Well you don’t gotta be a jerk about it,” he mumbled.

“I think zat we, haha, have a bit more of a problem here! Someone has to start pushing zat cart thing, and that will summon ze spy!” the doctor chirped, wagging the saw in his hands around a bit.

The scout’s, “Not it,” was as expected as the sun rise. He made a face, swapping out for his shotgun, “We gotta have like, a crew waitin’ here to shoot him up yeah? So we should send the guy who ain’t got anything to shoot with, if you get what I’m kinda pryin’ at here.”

The medic hesitated and looked down at his blade. He has this, and the syringe gun like the RED medic, but nothing that really shot all that well at a distance. He was a doctor, a healer, this weapons stuff was just not on. Spy could see the look on his face that had his torn between being bait, and wanting to stay behind simply because he wasn’t up for simply dying for no reason. Like the RED who mirrored him, he was nervous about dying. The heavy behind him rumbled.

“I can do it doktor,” he said, crunching his knuckles again, and shaking his head. It was a martyring, and Spy shook his head to witness it. Honestly, they were taking things far too seriously for his taste, and their whole idea wasn’t even going to help them considering he was watching and listening to them plan i--

“AAAAAAARGHHHHH!” Ah yes, the ever beloved noise of a Soldier returning to battle. From above a dark shape slammed into the ground, stones scattering, and the sounds of knees popping loudly as ligaments tore. Soldiers did not, as far as Spy could tell, give a single fuck often, and when they did they often gave flying ones.

The yell continued as the man, unaware or uncaring of his destroyed knees, ran headlong past the small crew trying to decide who would die first, and slammed into the back of the cart. Rocket still on his shoulder, Soldier gritted his teeth, muscles tensing up along his back, and gave a mighty heft. The cart shifted, he strained, and it started clicking its way uphill. The scout and Heavy turned to give each other a glance, only to be confronted by a happy little gout of flame from the pyro who’d shown up with such stealth even Spy glanced twice. The scout in question nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Ugh! And we’re fuckin’ worried about spies, when this creep can sneak up on us all the time! Jesus, you a spy?” he jabbed the rubber monster with his shotgun a few times, and then relaxed at the lack of faux electrical flux that the on-field mode on his disguise kit usually gave off.

“Nudda!” the thing pronounced with all the clarity that usually came with a pyro talking before it slunk forwards. It settled in behind the soldier, grunting and gritting, and proceeded to back into the cart, helping push the device while aiming its flamethrower outwards. To be honest it was an effective strategy. Two hands on a weapon, and his back was perfectly covered while he was still doing work. Spy had to give the beast kudos for thinking of it.

But none of that really specifically mattered. He took a deep lung full of smoke and pushed up off the cliffside, slipping his hands into the small of his back to grip one leather-gloved hand with the other. He walked down the track, neatly stepping past the cart being pushed by the dangerous pair, and wandered to where the other stood, milling somewhat nervously. The missing members of their team were long overdue, so Spy assumed they’d taken off to other parts of the battlefield, likely to try and exterminate his team before they got over here. After all, the lack of tell-tale headshots said that the sniper was at the very least preoccupied.

In fact the lack of his own teammates after the initial rush was both unnerving, and an opportunity. He could really shine with his new weapon. He slid past the pyro and soldier completely unseen, still smoking his cigarette like he wasn’t trying to hide. He even paused, taking a deep draught of smoke, while he let his cloak fill up while standing right next to them, close enough to see the sweat beading under the bucket helmet on the BLU. They thought he’d take the easy bait, show his hand that easily? Fools.

He continued his meandering, ignoring the pair at the cart and slipped right up behind the waiting fighters who had pulled to the side, up against the cliff to ‘hide’ from view and shoot that ‘sneaky spy.’ Jacques thought it was rather cute really. Like they were actually trying. He supposed that was rude of him, these are actually mercenaries. Typically they knew their business, and they killed one another without much trouble now-a-days. Honestly he should keep his wits about himself, respect them as honestly good at their jobs even if he did have a little fun with them at their expense.

He put a knife through the scout’s back, turned and shot the medic point blank in the head for a second time, and spun around before the Heavy could fully turn, to stab him as well. Three bodies hit the floor. He wiped his knife delicately across the lapel of the dead doctor and stepped over the shotgun clutched in the scout’s hands like even in death he was trying to prep himself to shoot the man. He kicked the gun away lightly, and meandered down the path. A crackle cloaked him again, and he turned his focus on the cart, which had just taken the turn. They’d seen nothing. He glanced up at the cliff-face and hugged it as he took the turn, not pausing before taking the corner.

The comm in his ear crackled alive, “That fucking Spy! He got us again!”

Spy flicked his gun out, uncloaking at a distance before the pyro and soldier could be alerted. The pyro raised his flamethrower, the warning ringing in their ears, but they were not fast enough. At 20 paces, Jacques plugged a bullet through one of the lenses of the goggles, the glass shattering with a faint hiss, spider webbing across with a gaping black hole showing the entry hole, as a wet splut hit the cart covering it in flecks of red. The pyro slumped in place, silently dropping the flaming weapon from their listless grip. Blood pooled under them, expanding to the tracks on either side and stopping. Spy hardly thought of cloaking now that two warnings had already been issued and Soldier was still plugging away at the cart ignoring everything around him.

“Someone get down zere! Zat spy will take out the cart! Look at the map, we’re nearly there. Demo! Engineer!” yelled the medic in his ear, slipping up and missing the team channel on their comms.

For a man usually aware of his surroundings, the soldier was extremely oblivious when he was focusing on something that required strength and manual labor. Either that or he was putting his all into getting over this hump. Once the cart was at the top of the hill, things would be easier after all. Spy could see the muscles bunching at his neck, veins popping out as he turned the corner. He really was close to the end of the troublesome part of the track. It very much could be that option then. Shame really, looked like his blood was really pumping, probably had a loud heartbeat in his ears, couldn’t even hear anything around him.

Spy casually popped his knife in between the vertebrae of his neck, and twisted. The skin parted under the sharp blade like butter, and it was all skill in the way he avoided both bones to plunge it into the small slit padded by cartilage. The meaty pop when he split the two pieces apart with pure torsion and leverage was quite satisfying, even though the initial thrust had severed the spinal column, instantly paralysing the man from the neck down. Which meant his heart had stopped beating, his lungs weren’t functioning, and he would shortly asphyxiate. It always paid to be safe around a kill though, overkill wasn’t overkill, it was insurance.

He wiped the blade off on the soldier’s shoulder as he dropped and was pulled down the track. The cart rumbled down the hill, the man’s hand trapped in the handle he’d been gripping so his body was tossed back and forth, ragdolling as the heavy speeding weight hit the pyro’s corpse and smashed it to bits from sheer momentum. It turned the curve, and Spy cloaked as he heard the yelp of a teenager, and the dull thud as the Scout got hit by the cart too. Ah, yes. Speaking of oblivious...

“This ain’t fair!” came the yelp echoed in his ear from how close he was to the kid limping around the cart which had come to a stop at the bottom of the hill when it hit the Scout. The kid grabbed on and pulled, walking backwards, “The timer’s runnin’ out. Somebody get down here an’ help or somethin’! This Spy’s too fuckin’ overpowered with this new bullshit. He’s like, cloaked all the time! When do we ever get a fair shake?!”

The engineer sniffed over the comms, his voice coming up for the first time, “Boy, he can’t be cloaked all the dag’gum time. Have you been keepin’ yer peepers out for ‘im?”

The scout stopped, and turned around suddenly, one hand holding the heavy cart up. For whatever else he was, speedy or not, he was fairly good at hefting weight, “Seriously man,” he cupped the headset to his ear, “Dis loser just kinda pops outta no where. We had eyes on the track for like, twenty, thirty seconds? Then alla the sudden he comes and takes us out. It ain’t just me. He got Medic and Heavy too. And we had a clean strip ‘a land watchin’ for ‘im!”

“... You’re sure? That ain’t sound like no spy weapon I e’er heard of,” the man sounded thoughtful, and Spy was decently amused they’d decided to speak on open channels about this. They must be trying to catch attention from the higher ups. Actual cheating, rare as it was, was frowned on. But this was a Mann Co. product, he wasn’t worried.

“Must be friggin’ new then! Get on your game and get down here and set up a fuckin’ sentry so we can get past this part. God, an’ why am I the only one pushin’ this fuckin’ cart? C’mon guys!” He groaned, and pulled again, the cart shifting up the hillside past Spy as he just-- let him go. He was interested in his bitching more than another kill for his killstreak. What, was he at now, eleven? Not bad at all really, and he hadn’t been hit by anyone else yet. He could get used to this.

“I AM LESS THAN PLEASED AS WELL,” yowled the Soldier and both Spy and the BLU scout visibly winced.

“Dis too much. We should report,” the heavy rumbled low.

“Conflabbit,” came the familiar tone of his own Engineer, the RED sounded disgruntled, “It’s a new weapon ya damn fools. Don’t try and start nothin’ over a bit of new tech. Just ‘cause you guys ain’t keepin’ up with the times don’t mean you can call it cheatin’.”

“Well how’s this even fair? He’s like hidden all the time! He could be next to one of us right now!” The perceivable dip in conversation as weapons discharged faintly all over the map actually made Spy have to bite his knuckle to keep from laughing. Even with the timer running, people were clearly standing around listening in on this conversation rather than--

A bullet pinged past him and he held extremely still, glancing up the opposite direction from the sound of the ricochet. The sniper he’d killed earlier perched in one of the upper towers, reloading his rifle. Clearly the man’d thought he’d seen something, and realization he could feel the air of the bullet trail past his cheek made Spy question his cloak for just one second. He backed up carefully against the cliffside and out of sight.

“Next one’s gonna be in you if you don’t keep that cart moving,” came the deep rumble, and the scout next to Spy pulled a face, dragging the behemoth further.

“Ya coulda just asked! Shootin’ at people is rude, you’re rude, you’re so rude that you’re a metaphor. Metaphors is rude you know,” he kept muttering low under his breath as he shifted up the track and Spy breathed out very slowly. He’d lost his cigarette, it was smouldering along the track. It was no longer covered by his cloaking, clearly visible as it burned down. He was so lucky the scout had chosen to move on like he’d been asked or he would have been outright spotted cloak or no cloak.

Jacques glanced up, gazing at the direction most were coming after respawn. He’d heard the Heavy and the Medic, but neither were showing up to the cart. Not even with the scout’s pleas for help. He shifted lightly on his feet, following the boy along the path like an old companionable mutt. He also didn’t know where the other team’s spy was, but then, he wasn’t worried. They must’ve switched tactics, killing off his team mates and leaving the Philadelphian teenager to pick up the slack with light guard.

Jacques had to admit if the sniper hadn’t given away his position to make an unneeded point, he would have been taken out pretty easily on his next kill. He wouldn’t have even seen it coming.

“I refuse to play dis game,” the words made him blink.

“Ja, I agree with Heavy! We are staying in respawn! Ze timer is almost out, and we do not want to play with und cheater!” oh, so they’d been talking amongst themselves coming to an agreement. Cute, but not needed. He rolled his eyes. Idling was considered rude, and while a break here or there wasn’t complained about, deliberately stepping out of the battle for little to no reason was. He saw the scout whip around and flip off the respawn entrance direction, stumbling to grab the cart when it rolled back a little bit. Spy casually raised his gun, uncloaking, and used a headshot to dispatch him from his hidden spot against the cliffside. He recloaked, using the environment to keep him out of the sniper’s sights, and allowed the cart to roll back to start again with the little body left crumbled. That’s twelve.

“DOMINATION, Jacques Hammer over B.J. Rimes!” echoes over the loudspeaker.

“GOD FUCKIN--” the loud response came 8 seconds later from respawn, followed by a loud crack and a muffled yelling that was audible over two other comms. The general idea was ‘I fuckin’ give up too, fuck alls y’alls.’ Spy rubbed a cheek and shook his head. The whole game was rolling to a halt from butthurt wimps trying to step off the field because they didn’t feel safe. This was war. What were those idiots thinking?

“5 minutes left,” the announcer’s voice said, coming over the loudspeaker, “Those of you idling should get moving. There will be no change to the roster, nor the weapons in play. It is advisable to Mann up before you break contract.” The tone was chilly, frosted over with annoyance. The fact that Helen of all people had had to speak out against the mini-rebellion was telling. He was honestly scaring these people.

Jacques grinned, lighting up a fresh cigarette as the Heavy came lumbering down all piss and vinegar, obviously cheesed off with the way people were treating him and his team. The loud uncloak sound rang out, as Jacques went for the easy kill, stabbing the broad target in the back before heading off at a dead run down the tracks. The others would be showing up shortly, and his cloak fizzled back over him, hiding him moments before he got to the big doors. They opened, the Medic died the second he stepped out, the Scout tripping over the body.

“Hah!” Jacques laughed, stepping on the boy’s back and aiming his gun down, “You’re all such losers,” he starts laughing, snorting even as he headshotted the surprised kid who reeled his pistol up to try and kill off the Spy. The hand thudded to the ground, and Spy turned, looking in the open doorway to see the heavy respawn. He didn’t even let him get a step, firing blatantly into respawn before the door sealed him out. Several strikes littered the back of the man from the short distance, and he roared, turning to drop his gun.

“Oi, BLUjay, Heav, you two sure dyin’ a ton out there,” came the rumbled comment from the sniper. Spy grinned at the teenage anger that burbled over the mic. “BLUjay” must’ve respawned at another point.

Spy hopskipped back away from the door, cloaking again as the bear man ran out, snarling loudly. It was the work of a moment to dart up behind the slower male. His cloak broke loudly, the man began to turn but as usual the useless fat oaf was too slow. It was the work of a moment to stab him again, and again. There wasn’t anything they could do, he really was out of their league. He started actually just laughing, standing over his sixteenth kill that day.

“Look see, dead agin’,” crackled over the mic. Jacques covered his mouth so as not to snort too loudly at the nonchalant teasing.

The roar of rage from inside respawn made him back against the wall alongside it again to sort of hide, even now the noise of the Russian blowing up wasn’t something to scoff at. The man’s voice spit over the mic, “Uncloaking noise! Listen leetle men! He loud when uncloaks!”

So the man had noticed the largest issue Spy had with his new toy; the cloak’s disengagement noise was far too loud. With gunfire, it was halfway decently hidden, but in quieter areas before such battle was initiated-- well he was just far too audible for his tastes. Granted the way to solve it was to move fast, and before the Cloak and Dagger he’d already been forced to focus on making speedy attacks before his cloaks ended. It wouldn’t be much of an issue to catch up, simply making the seconds after the cloak went down and his competitors knew he was coming, but now his weakness was now spread over the field. Not even one full battle kicking ass and here they were blowing his cover.

Oh well, a grin slipped across his face as he thought about it, time to make them really suffer then right? He’d already garnered a quick domination from the scout who’d run directly into him multiple times without thinking. The last few bodies he’d seen crumpled in front of him most seemed to be the heavy and the medic. The door slammed upwards, the metal rattling loudly, and he sidled more towards the fenced area as several people piled out of respawn. A few familiar backs, and plenty of shooting around themselves a few times showed he had the selection of old prey. One of the missing members of the flock, the Demo, also ran out of respawn, but he angled away from the cart yelling in some befouled tongue as he headed towards Spy’s team mates who were apparently camping waiting for the cart to get to them.

The pyro though, was sniffing around. Gouts of flame arcing up at Jacques had to sidestep carefully around, always keeping the beast in his sights.  It paid to pay attention to human nature. Everyone assumed you’d hide in a corner, or try to use the territory to cover for yourself. Going to the opposite side of respawn and standing a few feet away from the corner actually saved his life from the original gunfire, and moments later he’d worked his way clear around, following the cliffside long enough that the pyro got bored and started back after his friends who were visibly turning the corner with the cart. Each member pressed so it could attack any comers, keeping a wary eye on one another.

Spy took a deep intake of breath and let it out in a silent sigh. They were catching on. Alert now, and with a sniper keeping an eye on them from above, the next few kills would be more tricky. He scurried after the pyro, leaping at the last second he uncloaked and stabbed viciously. The thing however, turned around at the sound, flames coming out of his weapon barely inches from Jacques face. he could feel the heat, hear the crackle, his skin warmed, and he stabbed the pyro’s front, slashing it across the stomach and one forearm. The noise it made was somewhat inhuman, a cross between a guttural scream and a angry howl.

Blood gushed from the wounds, the rubber parted easily under his knife as he stabbed again. Darting around and trying to get around the slower flame throwing whelp. The creature turned with him, pulsing flame, then expending it in one long towering piece trying to light the scenery aflame. Jacques stabbed wildly, and then did the one thing he really didn’t want to do. He ran into the fire. The prickle of flame over his skin as his suit warmed dramatically was terrifying, and the burning sensation of his skin cooking was one of his most hated feelings. But the switch in direction, especially such an insane one, meant he caught the pyro unawares. The creature kept turning right, he went left, and finally but finally he lodged his knife in the creature’s spine, and took him down with his entire weight.

The pitiful whimper as it sluggishly twitched and stopped moving made him shudder, steam and smoke rising from his skin. A second degree burn, blisters, pain, red. He’d have to get to a med kit as soon as possible. But until then, he whipped his disguise kit out of the pocket of his vest, and quickly swapped forms. He still ached, there was no changing the damage to his body, but the shift of genetics under it still gave a contradictory cooling sensation. Rubber tightened around him, and he once again took the form of his most hated enemy. He grabbed up the weapon he’d just been flambè’d with the rubber gloves on his hands squeaking when they tightened on the grip.

There, now he had an excuse to get among them. The spy turned pyro turned on a heel, imitating the goofy little hopping run the curious creature always had. He bobbed his head, ignoring the feel of blisters tearing on the inside of the suit to keep up the look of a very interested bird. Luckily the track wasn’t very long from here, and the thud thudding trot sending pain shooting up his back and side didn’t have to last long. The twisted up face of the scout standing on top of the cart was the first thing he saw turning the corner, alert with his shotgun clutched in his fists. With the number of people piled on the bomb he was aware nearly instantly he was not going to be able to wipe them out as efficiently as he had been doing.

The heavy was pushing the bulk of the cart, Soldier at his side no longer straining because of the sheer numbers helping out. The medic, and the demo were there now. That was 5 eyes to fool, and the pyro would be trotting up angrily behind him any minute now. He shifted uncomfortably in his second skin, and then trotted ahead to cover for himself.

He raised his hands for attention, “HUDDA! Hudda hudda!” he said in fair mimicry, waving until the scout looked at him, and then gestured up the tracks. An okay symbol with yellow tipped fingers had the kid shaking his head impatiently and waving him on. There. They thought he was the pyro, which meant the other pyro would likely get shot. Now he had a pass alongside the building the sniper was inhabiting, which meant that he at least was out of the sights of one man.  That meant he could take to a building himself.

“1 minute warning,” the announcer crowed, “You are clearly ABJECT FAILURES.”

There was no way he could sneak and stab all 5 members currently hanging off the cart, just no chance at all with them so alert. He let the disguise fall as he turned the corner, jogging up into the building suddenly free of the constricting outfit he’d been forced to don in that form. He hated becoming that thing. He jogged carefully upstairs, grabbing onto a medkit the moment he came across it. While the kits weren’t quick, the numbing and healing salve hidden in the depths only took a moment to apply even while moving, and his skin crisped up tight, and smoothed out under his fingertips. He could afford the time it took for fix burns any day, let alone something this quick.

The spy turned the corner, scouting out a comfortable spot to shoot from. He’d have to use one of his other skills for this section of the battle. People didn’t think of him as anything but a sneak and stabber, but he’d come to this battle able to snipe as well. Granted he used an oversized revolver instead of the rifle the normal Sniper was bound to use, but it only meant he could take several shots in a row where the other man had to reload. It wasn’t a secret skill by a long shot, but it was an often overlooked one.

He settled at the window, peering along the track where the BLU team would be coming from, and started trying to pick targets logically. Once he fired a shot, people would be trying to get at him. Medic was useless, leave him for last. Heavy was dangerous, but his weapon didn’t take corners, neither did the scout who was likely to rush up into the building so he could stab him anyways. Pyro would be late, Sniper was out of the picture, so Soldier and the demo were the ones he’d have to watch out for.

Drunk, or rather mentally screwed up, what wonderful choices he had. He’d have to work quickly; once he took down one, the other would be throwing bombs or shooting rockets into his vicinity and neither of those could be avoided with that much ease. He’d have to hope that either they missed the direction of his initial shot, or they weren’t accurate. Which meant he would be smart to take out the demolitionist first.

The rumbling of cart on track dragged him out of overthinking things to the point of being frankly quite boring, and he raised his gun. Straight armed, elbow slightly crooked to keep himself from jamming it, he sighted his victims. The first shot went off without a hitch, the cart meant they moved slow and honestly he liked to take headshots at scouts who were at a dead run, so it was hardly a challenge. The demo’s head blew back, and instantly they were on alert for a sniper, eyes scanning the buildings but the moment after the first shot he took left his gun he had already been cloaking. They saw no one, nothing.

The assumption the sniper had moved was a dumb one. He raised his gun, and aimed again-- and dropped his sights. Three bullets plugged into the Soldier’s chest, knowing the helmet would ricochet them off. One went wide hitting the bomb and the Scout was already on the move. Spy shifted, aiming for one last shot. The bullet pinged across the field, and he looked away, raising his knife and hurrying to the doorway. The Scout thundered up the stairs, Spy’s noises covered by the announcement blaring loudly near them.

“DOMINATION! Jacques Hammer over Gregor Huffman!”

It was the last thing the Scout heard as Spy efficiently stepped behind him on his mad rush to kill him, and slammed him against a wall, shoving his knife deep in a kidney. he jerked it to the side, and then shoved the kid down, stomping on his neck once to snap it and put him out of his misery so he didn’t have to bleed out from that back stab. he heaved another sigh, evening out while he scooped up his bat, and swapped for his disguise kit. A quick moment later, a BLU scout rushed down to meet the cart, flushed with victory. There was only the Medic hanging off it now, scared even though the cart no longer could slide back if he let go. He looked around himself in terror, clutching his saw to his chest.

“I got ‘im!” he called out, sliding into the Philly accent the BLU scout was so used to using, “Friggin’ hidin’ upstairs. We’re good now, because I’m good now. See that means I’m awesome,” he rambled casually, shaking the bat back and forth just a little bit. Scouts, as far as he could tell, tended to be egotistical to make up for the fact that they were younger.

“Das good!” Medic exclaimed, letting out a sigh of relief, “I was worried, but-- you won’t mind if I just give you a prick to check will you?”

Oh good, Jacques thought sarcastically while he pushed his body to have an opposite reaction. He nodded cheerfully edging closer, “I don’t know why you gotta doc, I mean, I ain’t one for needles. Just poke me wid dat saw of yours yeah? Wait, is it okay? It looks broken!”

The doctor paused, and looked down at the weapon in his hands as if he’d forgotten he was even holding it. He tipped it, and really that was enough time for anyone. Jacques struck in the momentary distraction, shifting back to his natural form as the man slid to the ground with the knife in his neck. He flicked it out, and started moving as quickly as he dared.

“DOMINATION! Jacques Hammer over Johann Ringler! Also 30 seconds left. Get moving!” came the thunderous roll of the announcer’s call over the field, and the comm in his ear flickered to life for more.

“NOT BAD FRENCHY,” rumbled the RED Soldier, clearly over the team line.

“Merci,” he said aloud, shifting away from the battlefield. They had no more time, the countdown was nearing the last few seconds. He’d pretty much wiped the field with them, his killstreak was at 22 for the game’s duration. For someone whose typical number was four to seven, this was quite the improvement. All in all not a bad showing for a brand new weapon.

Over the next few weeks, battles were-- dare he say it? Fun. Every member of BLU at some point fell under his blade, and the complaints rang out until they started taking the suggestions of the heavy to heart. That and the Sniper started bottling his pee sometime after he got a large back armor device that shocked anyone who stabbed him from behind. That was a thing Spy had not enjoyed finding out about the hard way, in either case. Time passed, and both sides grew used to jumping to attention at the sound of his uncloaking, and the high Kill rates he enjoyed went right back down to a manageable level.

To be honest it was more fun when he earned them anyways, and he never did get too low. There were always the unwary, the deaf, the dumb, and the slow to pad the numbers.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell there's going to slowly be less exposition and more Jacques being a useless nerd as we go. Here's hoping this chapter was a little more fun to read! RED team is also based on the original canon crew, while BLU is a sort of-- slightly modified version. Later on we'll get more characters for both sides.


	4. Of Fantasy and Castles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacques the spy checks out each of the members of the RED team under his disguise, finding out interesting facts and some horrifying revelations. This chapter focuses heavily on scenes involving each of the comic/animation's canon versions of the team, except the scout. Actual canon RED Scout will show up later. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Canon typical violence.

They could hardly blame him for being curious, I mean really! He turned into these people and their opposites on the field, often enough to know what it was like being them from _inside_ their bodies. He knew the differences in how their bodies functioned, the way they interpreted the world through their senses. He even knew how blind the medic was exactly, and how the world looked from inside of a tight rubber suit and goggles. For instance the scout couldn't actually see differences in the shade of red if they were too close together, unlike himself. Height also always threw him off for a moment or two, let alone the change in center of gravity.

So they couldn’t really get _mad_ that he started trying to get to know them from the outside. It was a little confusing, even to him, to think of it that way. How else was he to think of it though? What people saw from the outside pretty much dictated the things he had to know. It depicted how he was supposed to act as them. He realized that normally a personality was considered who they were inside, but he’d already been inside them. He’d looked out of them and that’s when he felt their skin, understood their shape and weight, but that was just their shell. It was from the outside one could see who they were, their quirks and little habits. Just another side effect, a bit of perception altering that living this life could do to you he supposed.

It was just lucky he’d gotten himself that new watch he was so in love with. It helped with his plan significantly. It spoke to him on an emotional level, this new ability to hide in plain sight just watching. To sit there with cool blue eyes, silent as death itself, inches away from someone. Every detail, every breath, every flicker of their eyes. Their quiet personal moments, exposed to him. But not… exposed maybe, no. Shared. He liked secrets, he liked knowing things no one else knew, so really they were not completely stripped of their hidden worlds. It was more like he became a mirror. A silent secret confidant who saw everything about you, and tucked it away so it could show you everything other people didn’t see.

He wanted to see what the watch could really do off the field entirely. Maybe he was a little giddy and light headed, ready to do things he hadn’t felt like he had the tools to do before now. He just had to pick a victim, start off light. See where the night took him. A button push, now familiar, and invisibility cloaked him heavily. He felt the usual shiver as it tapped into his jacket, and he started moving with the grace of a cat seeking prey. He’d start with his own team, for safety reasons. He had reason to be sneaking around RED base after hours whereas the old ‘perimeter check’ probably wouldn’t go over well with the BLUs.

"IF GOD had wanted us to wake up in the morning. HE WOULD HAVE GIVEN US-- circadian rhythms, morning reveille, roosters, and the sun are BESIDES THE POINT," prey essentially found him at that point. Outside the building he could hear the soldier shouting his inane commentary and while it was not as private as he’d hoped, it was certainly not a face-to-face confrontation. Seeing Soldier up close without spittle flying and words directed at his face actually might be a fairly rare treat.

The rugged army man was marching back and forth in front of a line of heads, each with a BLU helmet. Their severed stumps were no longer leaking sluggishly, but the remaining trails down the surfaces made it obvious they had been fresh when he’d planted them there. They looked a little haphazard, their accessories clearly replanted on their faces in a rough childish manner (especially in the case of the Medic whose glasses were askew.)

“THEREFORE, Sleep is for the WEAK, this is why we must never wake up, by the simple method of NEVER FALLING ASLEEP TO BEGIN WITH! We will keep watch 24 HOURS A DAY for the duration of EV-ER-EE DAY,” the man shouted, his tone one of a proud drill sergeant at work. He swung around, shaking a finger in the dead eyed stare of one of his ‘soldiers’, a blissfully unaware sniper head, “AND YOU. You sleep too much anyways. DO YOU HAVE NAR-KO-LEP-SEE?”

Spy crept forwards in a paced manner, crawling up on the fence and settling next to the enemy heads. He sunk forward, hands betwixt his legs, and completely ignored his usual prim posture for comfort. Invisibility gave him another bonus. He didn’t have to look good and keep up a reputation for being frightening and proper right now, he didn’t have to worry about other people seeing him at all. Right now he just watched, becoming nothing, as Soldier moved back and forth pacing. His no sleeping idea seemed like it’d bring hell down on everyone. Honestly he was enough trouble without a lack of sleep disturbing what few filters he had. Making him even more deranged was not a good plan.

“WE WILL DIVIDE AND CONQUER,” he declared suddenly after a short break of thoughtful trudging, “Our eyelids must remain separate. Otherwise--  we will LOSE this battle!” He turned to the rest of the ‘team’ before him and Spy waited for the inevitable. There was no way that the man--  “AAAAARGH!” -- wouldn’t blink.

“NAZI’S! IN MY _EYES_!” he howled, reaching up under his helmet with clear horror etched on his face. His mouth sagged, the agony of defeat already clutching at his heart, “Forcing me to SUFFER as they cause them to DRY OUT. Tiny towel-using NAZIS!” He dropped to his knees, pulling back his helmet and revealing startlingly clear blue eyes. Spy blinked for a few seconds, huh, Soldier had eyes. Next you’d be telling him that the engineer hadn’t welded his goggles into place.

“IT BURNS, but we will PERSEVERE!” He was choked by emotion, prodding at his eyes with big fat fingers in a way that made Spy flinch visibly. The idea strangely enough worked though, pain made his eyes water, watering meant they stopped being dry. Big fat droplets rolled down the older man’s cheeks in near-victory. But even as he watched, reflex took over against the sheer power of his will, and Soldier threw himself to the ground shouting incoherently trying to halt the flicker of his lashes.

“NO, I CAN’T--  FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION-- ” his eyes closed again, and he sputtered, but then fell silent. Moments later Spy raised an eyebrow at a rumbling noise coming from the slowly rising chest. It strengthened, a slow rhythmic response that took him a few seconds to realize was actually the military man snoring. He'd fallen asleep instantly apparently. He waited patiently for a few moments, watching, and realized that simply curled in the dirt, the man was peacefully sleeping off whatever madness he’d coaxed himself into. He wasn’t going to get shit else out of him at this rate.

He rolled his eyes, well, it’d been amusing if not particularly illuminating, but really what had he expected creeping on _Soldier_ in a relatively public space? The man hardly kept many secrets to begin with. I mean everyone even knew his name. He took his own time to consider his next target. While he thought about it, he absently ended up wandering briefly to his room to secure a blanket, only to return and drape it over the soldier’s shoulders to keep him from getting sick. Well, for amusement factor they had their demolitions expert. The demo had secrets out the wangdoodle, although they all trended towards recipes and drink mixes. It would do for a second chance.

Jacques trotted to where the man was most commonly seen getting drunk, his comfortable little hole in the wall where he kept bottles of booze stacked with his dangerous explosives. They were all tools of the job alone, given that the man was relatively sober when he wasn’t ready to blow people up. He really only drank when it was time to send everyone he knew to respawn. He was a pretty likable man in general. He liked to laugh. Spy in turn liked hearing him laugh. It was a spot of good feelings in what could have been a really trying war. Demo, whether he realized it or not, kept the team just a little more stable.

The spy peeked in the front door of the little well-established niche. There was the man himself, kicked back with his boots on the table. Spy winced, and shifted slightly to the right so he didn’t _quite_ have such a great view up his kilt, and crept forwards. Tavish was on the phone, that much was easy to discern once he managed to wander deep enough into the dimly-lit room. It was murky with smoke from a lit cigarette resting on the nearest box of TNT. He held very still for a few seconds once the logistics of that registered, and then shrugged it off. If the expert didn’t think it was a problem, Jacques was willing to trust him with his life. At least they had respawn if his trust was misplaced. Theoretically. If it survived.

“Ach, Mum ye know better than that! Yer big wee son Tavish’ll be home aboot the time ye expect. Yes yes, I’ll be there mum, all weekend. You know I take weekends off ta be with you,” He laughed, rocking his chair back with a creak, “No mum, I don’t think I’m completely worthless na’ do I think I’m too good to have another job. Ye don’t think three are fine when you’ve got everything you coul--  nah not sassin’ you mum. Na mum, I’ll wipe the smug off me mouth before I come home and kiss yer wee blinkered face.”

Spy smiled, slinking to a stable looking box and perched just out of the way, watching him intently. The big man looked gruffly amused at everything his mother was verbally throwing at him, blissful as he sat back in his man-cave in comfort and security. How he could be so at ease in a room which literally had the ability to explode and take out the entire base, respawn included, Spy would never be able to understand fully. But they lived life knowing he had this oversized mess, and that they’d never died without him purposefully behind a trigger. He had to be trustworthy, they all had to be on some level. The war had set firm ideals of brotherhood in all their minds and it was nice to know they all sort of looked out for one another and respected each others expertise.

“Mum, mum I’ll fix the TV--  what do you mean the colors ain’t right. Mum, I dinnae know if you ken this, but yer blind. More than an old bat. Ye didnae have an eye to speak of. The TV colors aren’t gonna-- but I-- yes Mum. I’ll fix them when I get home, mum,” he said. Another sigh escaped him, and he leaned forwards in his chair again, rocking back and forth slowly. Spy watched his face. The look of half-frustration and half-contentment said a lot. The man loved his mother, there was no question of it, but it was clear times like this made him want to carefully set the phone down and go take a drink even when he wasn’t on the job.

“Mum, I didnae know,” he said, “Mann Co. has a weird schedule alright? They only update us on things e’ry few months, if that.” Spy turned away from the quiet chatter, listening with ears pricked, but really more intent on exploring this neat little cave. He stayed up on his perch, not trusting himself to move quietly among the empty bottles that laid strewn around the room. They clustered near the bottoms of the crates, simply pushed out of the main walkways so one could walk around, except a few newer looking ones. It didn’t seem like Tavish often cleaned up, and why would he? The bottles probably made good Molotov Cocktails. Hell they’d make fine bases for bombs themselves he was sure of it, not that he’d seen them on the field. Not to mention the alarm system of them clinking loudly for any idiot trying to mess with explosives.

Spy squinted back at the man, “Mum, _Mum_ I’d love to visit for Easter. I like Easter, with the wee bomb eggs you always hide among the others. It’s always fun ta get a basketful and realize the hissin’ noise is one of the special ones,” he laughed, loudly, and rocked back on his chair again making Spy stiffen in surprise at the sudden loud noise, “Oh! Lawd, I hadna even remembered lil Timmy! Ye know yer the best at hidin’ ‘em Mum. When ye hide them, ain’t no one can profess to have seen where you put ‘em, not even you!” Another laugh bust out of him and Spy wrinkled his nose in equal amusement.

Admittedly the man was a better son than he thought, and knowing he was going home to his mother for the weekend, every weekend, was sweet. It also let him know exactly where to find him off the field in case that matter ever arose. However, he was also not drinking, and as nice as learning his secrets were, his actual point behind all of this spying was to learn someone's typical behavior so he could imitate them on the field. Between him being far too loud on the phone for Spy to handle at the moment, and also frankly sober, he couldn’t particularly learn what he'd come to learn. Stinking half-blind with drink when he was firing the damn explosives around, and Spy would have to wait for that. He had a pet theory, all in all, it was because drunk he had an excuse for blowing himself up, or if he was feeling particularly dark about things, that it was to dull the pain of being blown up when it did happen.

Whatever the case, this was no longer fun to watch, and he slipped out of the tiny hovel like a ghost back to hunting someone else to fill his time with. So far the watch had been doing admirably, but, perhaps he should move onto bigger game. Someone who paid attention to details, even if he didn’t particularly seem to care about them if they got in the way of his experiments. He snorted at himself, and spooked a bird who couldn’t see him into changing course as it flew by. The infirmary would do nicely, and the Medic was the kind of man you were never sure about anyways. Was he really as timid and sweet as he acted, or did he have some darker secret he used the humor to cover for?

When he peeked into the infirmary window to mark everyone’s places so he could make a quiet entrance, he froze. Beside Heavy and Medic, who he expected, there was a head on the table. A human head, with a balaclava just like his but blue, and a cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t understand for a second, staring blankly, until his brain comprehended that actual _smoke_ was rising from the cigarette. There was no way this was what he was seeing. He shook his head slightly to deny the inevitable conclusion. Unless the Medic was sick enough to use a head as an ashtray and-- The head rolled his eyes in annoyance, and snapped off a comment Spy couldn’t hear through the glass, and he kicked himself backwards and away from the window to cover his mouth in quiet horror.

Alive. The Medic had a living severed head, just sitting on his table, able to talk to him. A living BLU head, just sitting there, apparently comfortable enough to express annoyance instead of fear. Jacques went for the door, checking his mental map quickly. It placed all three of them as together in the back of the room, behind the large bookcases that Medic liked to keep between the patients and the door. Presumably so he could grab them and stop them from running away from him. Spy caught his thoughts, and gently reminded himself that just because he didn’t get along too greatly with medics on a large scale, didn’t mean they were all terrible people who had patients trying to escape them at any given moment. Except this one had a fucking severed head for a pet, and so it was probably a spot-on conclusion.

He slipped through the door silently, flicking his cloaking on to sneak around the edge of the towering bookcases to peer into the surgical theatre, “NEIN,” the doctor snarled at the head, shaking his knife violently, “I will not kill you! Honestly, you ask zat what, ninety times a day? A hundred? I have experiments to do, I have zings to learn!” He slammed his fist down on the table, and the Heavy laughed low and shook his head thoughtfully.

“Doktor,” he opened his meaty hands wide as he began to plead a case on behalf of the head, “do you think he is… unhappy?”

The medic sniffed waving a hand, “I do not care! But I assume he must be. Whining to die every 5 minutes like this would be absurd otherwise!”

“Den I smash him, solve everythink,” the giant said patiently, cracking his knuckles.

“Oui! Zat is what I want!” it was so disturbing to hear his countryman talking when he was clearly in a position that would have killed anyone else. Jacques shuddered and shifted his stance, allowing himself deeper into the network of devices. He had been right, this was definitely a level up in intel from the last two attempts. Delicate instruments were balanced everywhere, but their beeping and other assorted noises covered the sound of his footsteps, should he be too loud.

The medic cackled, and then abruptly stopped, setting his knife down with a clink, “We will not be doing that. I do not even think it would work, you resisted gunfire far too well. Instead, we will be working on yet another experiment. How do you feel about car batteries?”

“Like zey should remain in cars!” The French head snapped, and Jacques peeked around the corner just in time to see him nearly losing control of his cigarette. The head wrinkled his nose, using his tongue and lips to fight it back into place. He looked like a dog trying to lick peanut butter off his nose, and Jacques marked his own mind’s absurd metaphors about that as cause for later training. He couldn’t afford to disconnect like this because of a little weirdness.

“Hoho, it was a joke! You see,” The doctor turned, brandishing a battery with wires attached, “You don’t get an opinion!” The Heavy took a moment to translate this, and then when he did, bust up laughing with that big gut-deep belly laugh of his.

“Ahhh, Doktor,” he said, sniffing and wiping at an eye while he shook his head, “Dis funny, you a funny leetle man. No opinions for enemy. Is good.”

“I am glad you think so mein freund!” He whipped the cords around attaching them to the spy’s ears through his mask. Though the head had opened his mouth to talk again, he instead jolted his neck muscles and rocked on the table in bad humor at the pinching. Not to mention when he opened his mouth, the doctor had had the insolence to quickly put a clamp onto the tip of his tongue. A glare settled into place, but neither of the fully bodied men seemed to particularly care.

“Contact!” The doctor cried elated, and electricity zapped through the head, causing it to shudder in place, making a disgusting noise. Jacques was almost sure the head’d bite his tongue off, but the color of the head… changed. A strange metallic look overtook it as it twisted into a grotesque mockery, frozen into a gargoyle looking shape by electricity. The medic set his clipboard on the table, writing a few furious notes.

The heavy leaned in, all muscle mass and squinted, “Возможно,the электрический импульс вызывает the углерода и железа в крови, чтобы выровнять таким образом, чтобы образовать на уровне кожи барьер против вреда?” The doctor hesitated, and tilted his head back and forth.

“Well maybe,” he tapped his chin as Spy stared blankly having been unable to understand a word of the Russian the man yammered off, “But I don’t see why--  I suppose a thin layer of carbon at the top could form-- ”

He whipped the electrical device off, and the spy head sagged, panting despite the lack of lungs, “But then!” The doctor announced, skittering for his paperwork and getting it everywhere as the heavy patiently sighed in amusement, “That would form something like--  like diamonds! Or--” He whipped around again, adjusting his glasses.

“Some previously unknown carbon arrangement, even stronger than diamonds, since diamonds crack under penetrative pressure and this survives practically everything we aim at it,” he frowned, studying the head as the spy in question tried to adjust the cigarette back into his mouth to glare back. Heated and angry. Jacques could see that was an animosity that would not stop even if the doctor returned his body to him. No wonder he was putting it off.

“I have shot it many times yes,” the heavy nodded agreeing with the other man nonchalantly, “Even with Natasha, I have not killed dis head.”

“To be alive like zis, is completely against my will,” the BLU said shakily, “I assure you.”

“To harness this type of change, would require a catalyst for molecular activation! The chemical’s natural reaction to blood seems to cause an increase in molecular frenzy causing healing-- I would need--  a, device for-- ” he scattered more papers, and the heavy bent to pick them up, neatly shuffling them and putting them back on the desk until the doctor found a clean one. He hunched over it, madly sketching and designing, getting his thoughts out where he could see them and make further jumps.

He juttered, his pencil jerked over the paper. Behind the medic’s back Jacques was treated to the BLU spy and the heavy meeting eyes, glancing at the doctor and doing twin shrugs and rolled eyes. It was pretty clear that despite the spy’s hatred for what the medic was doing to him, he had struck up a friendship with the RED heavy without meaning to. A sort of understanding with the other man was working as the glue that kept them together. You know, despite the obvious reasons like not being able to walk away from this insanity.

Jacques started making his way backwards, ready to take off again. Clearly this place was less safe than he’d thought before. As amusing as it was to watch the three interact he recognized that if he was caught, it would be him joining the other man on the slab for further testing. He very much didn’t _like_ that idea. The medic’s loud cry of pleasure was the last straw, a ‘wunderbar!’ chased him thoroughly out of the room, door swinging shut covered by the loud banging as the doctor upset a tray of something or another dashing around for supplies. He was not looking forwards to whatever the man was going to do to them with this brand new shiny knowledge.

He nearly tripped over his next curious little mission. He’d actually considered quitting for the night when what he liked to think of as one of the most interesting cases to have come across his door in years sidled past with a faint squeaking from the rubber coated body. Pear shaped, and not any gender as far as most of the team had been able to tell, the pyro was a mystery to all. A breath of hot air blew from the device on its face, the filters clicking slightly as the tiny internal vents opened up for a moment to let it out in a rush. The creature moved agitated hands in front of it, gesturing like it wanted to strangle something. It stopped moving, and then ducked down, weaving back and forth.

Jacques silently took up stalking it, moving from background object to background object with a graceful speed to make sure he gave his cloak time enough to recover. This beast was a monster on the field, and off it? He’d been hugged by the devilish thing hard enough his back cracked, but nothing worse. Neither was an experience he wanted to repeat. The beast trundled quietly, stopping every few feet to shove a curious head into a bucket or a barrel, sometimes reaching in and trying its hardest to grab something. At one point, it slipped and fell in, a hideous squeaking noise erupting until it knocked over the entire barrel, sending it smashing to pieces. It seemed distraught. Clutching the pieces of wood as it sat there seemed to only make it sadder, and soon enough it hugged them to its chest only to rock back and forth a little, pushing a masked cheek into the chunks.

It hummed. Jacques stopped for a moment, and put away his annoyance at the class itself, allowing the person in front of him to be a person, instead of a personification of his first death. A sad person, slowly petting over splintered wood as if it had actually been hurt, tenderly gathering it together. The sounds coming from the mask sounded like a lullaby, soft and soothing. Each yellow tipped fingertip of the oversized gloves gently ran itself over the wreckage with fondness even as it started taking the pieces and setting them up into a neat little teepee. Placing each piece ritually, sometimes pulling one away to replace it with something better.

Instead of being haphazard, it had a pattern to it. The smallest pieces first, some instinctive thought, aiming to build up around the core with bigger and bigger pieces until an open knit pattern of wood arose. There was an open space, a tiny door left open facing the pyro. It clapped its hands together, and then rocked back and forth looking around carefully. Jacques froze, watching intently and hoping his cloak was as good as he thought. The pyro stared directly at him for a little while, then dropped its mask down, looking at its zipper pull while it struggled to unzip the front of its costume. Jacques craned to look, but--  nothing. There was some fabric, some underlying material between it and the rubber, but nothing that declared it anything more than someone who wore clothing.

He wryly chalked it up as ‘not a nudist’ into the few things he had managed to find out about it, and then let his attention be guided back to the work at hand. A tiny piece of newspaper was drawn out. Some precious tiny fragment that it had clearly scraped and starved to find. No one let the pyro have anything flammable that often, and heat had already clearly licked the edge of this paper leaving it blackened and singed. Not only had it probably taken forever to find it, but it had taken the time to slowly use it in bursts. It must have been stopping itself, clearly, or there would be none left. Clever little fingers worked on the paper, spinning it into a tight little curl that it transformed into something that looked like a snake to Jacques.

The pyro must’ve agreed, because when it pushed open the little center hole of the teepee tower wide enough to slip it in, it hissed for it as it did. A soft little noise, Jacques could barely hear it, but clearly an imitation of a snake. It slowly stroked over the ‘head’ of the animal before digging again. This time, out of the depths of the suit, came a lighter. It was simple, nothing expensive or specialized. Just a common colored see through plastic lighter one could find at just about any gas station in the area. It took a moment to gaze at it, also lovingly, and then with a flick--

Flames sparked into life, spitting miniscule sparks as it rose up from the flint, lighting the gas that emitted when the button was pushed. As the boring components changed from mere rock and gas into plasma, the pyro’s attention changed from delicate to enraptured. Shoulders dropped. Every piece of body language read that it would be content there to stare into the depths of the flame forever. It took a few seconds for it to pull free, and finally, slowly, so achingly slowly, it placed the tip of the flame to the nose of the paper snake.

The paper shifted by itself, then blackened, and then lit orange. Spy could almost see the joy as the pyro carefully allowed the lighter to go out, conserving the fuel as the colors chewed their way over the spun paper flesh. The blackened pieces and reddish edges formed a pattern that actually would be beautiful on a real snake. It breathed in, deep, and he followed suit, breathing in deeply at the same time, to experience what it did. The smoke had begun rising, he realized, as the first tiny splinters of wood caught fire and released a fragrant smell into the air. At some time the barrel had clearly contained alcohol, for the smell of whiskey rose up among the flames, just slightly adding to the warm rich smell of wood smoke. He slipped closer to the little bundle of rubber, slowly sitting down across from it behind the fire. The smoke spiralled between them, and the pyro jolted.

Spy held his breath, and the smoke from the flames twisted and turned and the pyro grew agitated, reaching across it to sweep at where Spy was sitting. He rocked back, unsure of what had alerted it before he realized that smoke behaved in very precise ways. Without thinking he’d disrupted a natural occurrence of it going to the biggest ‘wall’ by making it fight between two ‘walls’. He backed off, annoyed at the interruption, and when the flames settled again, crackling slightly and popping with the old oak wood upheaving tiny particles of sap, the pyro slowly settled down once more.

Fire was so much more important than an intruder who had now clearly left, since the smoke was behaving as it should again; twisting and wrapping the pyro up in its embrace. The person inside the suit settled, fingers trailing to thoughtlessly zip up the front of their clothing, sinking down to peer into the flames like an old augury to the fates. Spy smiled to himself, kicking his feet up and sitting in the dirt. Even further away from the fire and the pyro he just felt--  part of this somehow. Comfortably enjoying the companionship of another. He didn’t think the pyro would understand, could understand, that someone else was able to simply sit near a fire and watch like they did. Maybe one day he’d admit it to one of the little firebugs, see if he was accepted long enough to watch properly with them.

They stayed that way for a long time, Spy hadn’t even checked the passing of time since they settled down. There was only fire, and crackling, and the peaceful warmth of daylight fading down letting the chill of the desert air take its place. A breeze flickered across the tiny mess of wood and the last of the charcoal shuddered from flame into glow. It had burned out. The pyro stands on the opposite side of the fire, and Jacques raises his eyes to watch them do so. It’d been a fair passing of time really, the sun had gone dark and his wrists were aching now that he actually started to move them as he prepared to get up too. Maybe an hour or two of just staring, leaning on his arms. The pyro shook themselves, and then turned, thinking for a moment before starting to trundle away. The spy slid to his feet, dusted himself off, and followed them. Even with the lingering otherwordly feel, he was curious what would happen next.

The kitchen, apparently, was the next big thing. A happening spot for all cats and kittens. He didn’t quite chuckle at the phrasing his own mind as he watched how the other person walked. The pyro had an interesting gait, plodding, heavy. When they dropped their foot, a lot of them went with it, bouncing slightly on the strike. In fact, the upper half of their body looked oddly mobile. He assumed that meant they weren’t big enough to completely fill out the upper half of the suit, and asbestos padding was actually altering their body shape. God knows if they were even pear shaped, that might have been the fluff settling over time.

When they both arrived, the pyro started snuffling through the cabinets in front of him. He stopped, and set his cheek into his palm watching them like the owner of a particularly adorable kitten. It was cute really, the way it acted similar to a curious child. The little beast snatched up a chef’s hat, setting it on their head with a triumphant mutter that Jacques blinked and leaned in to listen to the muffled chatter.

“Duhhut is furfig,” it said, “Neh, duh wufin.” The spy blinked a few times, that almost sounded like deep in the mask someone was actually talking to themselves. Well, of course, he thought they would be, his inclination to think of the pyro as a monster or a thing didn’t stop him from being intelligent, but that didn’t sound like the random jabbering of an insane person either. Sure, at a longer range it sounded like a repeated nonsense, a hudda hudda if you would, but if you listened closely…

They pawed through a drawer, ditching knives and forks left and right until they came up for air clutching a spatula, “Hi hun hit!” The drawer hits the floor with a clang, spilling utensils everywhere as the little critter whipped around, proud of his accomplishment. He didn’t stick around and Spy found himself hurrying off his kitchen perch to follow as they bounded off at a squeaky waddle. God knew where he was headed in all this, but Spy was quite willing to see this through. After all, this was-- interesting.

The hallways moved quickly by the pair, ending up in a part of the base Spy very much recognized. Their engineer lived here, a Dell Conagher, who mess hall legend had it had been contracted long before this war had actually started. A few years in fact, where he’d been operating under secrecy while creating a device for both Blutarch and Redmond. He regularly went to the man, beyond the initial tentative friendship they’d struck up, the engineer was the only person on base who could service his sapper, cloaking device, disguise kit, and his suits. Plus he made a mean lighter in his spare time. While Spy wasn’t particularly close to any member of the crew, for he assumed someday if this all went south he’d be the one they came to to wipe out his team, he counted Engie as someone he could at least generally find useful.

“Huddo!” the pyro announced, sliding onto a bench very carefully, avoiding the various bits of machinery strewn across the workbenches. Spy smiled fondly, while the place looked like an endless sea of wreckage, it was carefully catalogued and given a second or two the highly intelligent man could find you anything you needed. He’d scraped through his records beforehand. A native of Texas, he had 11 PhD’s and was generally more intelligent than most gave credit for after hearing his rather hickish Southern accent. Same as the Heavy, who due to language barriers came off a downright moron despite what Spy had gathered was a degree in Russian Literature.

It takes the engineer a while before he raises his eyes from the piece he’s retrofitting, and he smiles, “Howdy champ, where’d you get the fine accouterments?”

The pyro displays them proudly, “Di tishun.” Spy blinked, the understanding giving him a faint glow of pride.

“Well now,” Dell pauses from his work properly actually pulling back from the pieces of sentry to look at the pyro, “You be mighty careful. I know there’s a few sorts possessive about their hats and their kitchens around these parts.”

The pyro toes at the bench under itself shyly, “Eenust’orrowin?”

“Even then,” the man looked thoughtful for a second, “You know I come from Bee Cave, right? Fine little place, real homey. Just outside of Austin, real small… Well, I got me a liddle farmhouse out there.” He smiled to himself, looking distant for a second, “Fine place. Whitewash the fence regular, big red barn, nice dog. She’s a good ol’ hound dog. Likes to bay at everythin’ under the gol durn sun.”

He sniffs and rubs an oily finger under his nose, leaving a streak, “Well, about, 10 years ago by my reckonin’ there was a young gent from the neighborin’ farm. Well he had the stickiest fingers I ever done seen. You left that boy in a hen house, and your hens’d stop laying for a week because he done snatched all their eggs in advance. But you ever caught the kid, he’d just say he was borrowin’. No harm no foul right? And he’d hand over your watch, and your wallet, _and_ your car keys, even if you only caught him nicking a handkerchief.”

“So about this time,” He kicks his feet up, leaning back in his chair, “We had us a real mean old cow. She would put her foot in the damn milk bucket every single day if I didn’t yank it away ‘fore she could try. She used to charge me, and I’d go alley-oop over the fence soon as muck with her. Named her Betty, for my sweet aunt who ain’t never met a man she couldn’t outlive.”

By this time the Pyro was on the edge of their seat in anticipation, and Spy could see the tremble of excitement down it’s back. Spy leaned back, catching himself doing nearly the same while Dell’s smile was spreading lazily, as he got into the telling of the story.

“So this fine young man, upstanding as they come, so long as you only count thieves, sneaks into my barn. Dead of night, a nice warm summer’s night better suited to pursuits of the fairer sex, and he’s tryin’ to steal my lanterns. Later on I found he meant to resell the oil and replace ‘em like I wouldn’t notice. Little bugger-- in any case. He snuck in through the window, and slid real neat into one of the pens to avoid wakin’ my dozy ol’ dog up. If she started a bayin’ I woulda come runnin’ shotgun in hand, and borrowin’ excuse or not, the boy’d be talkin’ it out a new buckshot hole in his head.”

Spy moves real quiet, taking up a stool when he realizing this was going to be far more than a standing story. Dell licks his lips real slow, “But, that dear ol’ boy picked the wrong pen I tell you what. Betty ain’t fond of people in her space, real territorial, so when that boy lit ‘pon the hay she swung herself to the side and pinned him right against the wall with all her weight. And, forgive me for insultin’ a fine lady like her, that was a fair amount of weight to be gettin’ on with.”

“So I hear this caterwaulin’ comin’ from the barn not a moment later. I got the sounds of a boy howlin’ his heart out for help, a bayin’ damn hound dog pitching a fit tryin’ to outdo him and the angry moos of a cow settin’ up to give a man a piece of her mind. So I throw on my boots and I rush out there and you know what I find?”

Spy shakes his head, forgetting for a moment his invisibility, but Pyro echoes it and Dell grins nonetheless, “Betty’d pissed all over that boy’s shoes, and m’dog was pullin’ his pants down. I swear, it was the funniest damn sight I ever did see. He was just a pair of scrawny arms, wragglin over the pen side, and a pair of bare legs, knees together tryin’ to keep the ol’ hound from takin’ him to the floor where Betty sure as not woulda stomped his ass flatter than a flapjack. Forgive m’language.”

He sniffs then, and wraggles a finger at the giggling pyro, “Took him home after hosin’ him down, and didn’t tell his folks shit. But he never picked so much as an ant off my property after that. And that’s why you shouldn’t steal, ‘cause if you get in over your head borrowin’ this and that pretty as a picture, sooner or later a fat ol’ cow’ll sit on you, figuratively, metaphorically, or literally.”

Pyro nods a few times, fiddling with it’s fingers to make their gloves squeak semi-obnoxiously, “Ull ee airepul.”

Engie nods, and chuckles soft, looking back down to his work, “I know you will champ, now g’on. Ol’ Dell needs to get this done ASAP. I wanna get back on the field tomorrow with this ol’ girl’s new parts.” He patted the tripod next to him affectionately and the pyro nodded again, pushing off the stool carefully and making a sort of game of leaving. Bouncing and hopping over different cracks and black spots on the concrete where old devices had exploded.

Dell’s attention had shifted pretty quickly however, dropping back down to the circuit boards in front of him his little welding gun flickering as her soldered another connection, muttering soft, “Now, there you are lil girl. Got you some new brains you know,” his voice was much softer with no apparent audience. His tone sweet and adoring for the device alone. Spy shifted carefully off his perch, it was like listening to someone talk to their lover. Or perhaps their own sleeping child.

The engineer tipped the circuit board a little, showing the multiple phases neatly marked out with sharpie in a handwriting style that was very concise. His notes abounded with little square letters, each the same height and width. Something a contractor or teacher would have as it made the writing quite readable to everyone.

He raises his hands, pulling at his goggles, and Spy pulls back a little sharply, before catching himself looking at another pair of blue eyes. He hesitates for a second, filing that away, and then hunkers down in front of the man who gazes through him unknowingly.

“Well, there we go baby girl,” he says tracing the outline of the board, “Now I just get the guns done up, and I can upgrade you on the field real quick like. S’long as I got the metal to throw into your ammo slot.”

Dell chuckles, slipping the disk back into the sentry’s head, letting it click into place before she wakes up with a chirp. Spy immediately regrets allowing himself to think of it as a she like Dell obviously did, even as the man ran a rough calloused hand over the polished metal.

“You’re developin’ quirks you know, gettin’ a real fine personality,” he chuckles and scruffs the machine like a cat and it chirrups like it can understand him and presses into the touch, “Your kill feed says you’ve been takin’ people out a little late, smart lil girl. You let ‘em feel safe and then peg ‘em when they can’t back outta the charge. You got a pretty fine number too. Proud of you.”

It’s enough to make a man’s stomach drop out, seeing how much love Dell has for his machines. Watching Dell set the sentry up on a table and gently cover it with a quilt makes him realize he didn’t know that the engineer kept the little chirper on when it wasn’t on the field. Neither did he know he talked to them like this. He shifted uneasily, stepping back. He killed these things on the field regularly with his sappers, draining them of life. I mean admittedly he wouldn’t stop, the humans were more sentient than they and he took them out as well, but-- it stung a little.

At least this was his team, he thought, turning on a heel to sneak out the open door. Perhaps the other engineer wasn’t as close to his machines, maybe, “You sit there and take a good long rest girl. Your big sister Dispenser needs you to keep a good eye out on her.”

Spy swallows hard, and hunches his shoulders more than ever. This was one of the expected problems of his little prank. He found out things even he truly didn’t want to know. this seemed like something he would have found out sooner or later anyways though, you could only hide love like this for so long. It was just, he hadn’t gotten that close to these people yet, and now he was peeking into their dark little worlds. His hands shook for a second and he flicked his fingertips as if ridding himself of droplets at the tips. With the gesture he set his miniature crisis aside and decided to go find someone far less complex than the engineer. For instance that sniper fellow.

He might have been quicker than he should have been to insult the sniper’s laidback lifestyle, but the man grated on him a little bit. Spy spent his life on the field primed and ready to strike, moving from place to place, wiping out enemies no one else could reach, tucking and rolling and hiding as best he could. That sniper just sat in the window, mumbling to himself, pissing in jars, and occasionally pulling a trigger if it suited him. While his shots were mostly admirable, he missed like everyone else and presented far too easy a target. Despite the fact that they both claimed to be professionals, there was just something lazy about the other man.

Spy breathed in slow while leaving the base, skidding down the hillside rather blatantly with dust kicking up around his heels instead of trotting along the long winding path. The damn caravan the man always seemed to ride in wasn’t near the top of the hillside like the rest of base was, no far from it. Instead from his own tower he could look out and see it parked alongside, on the outside of everything. Maybe he was a bit jealous. He had to leave all his treasures and pleasures behind when he left the base, but the sniper could simply plug in a key and leave any time he pleased with his home intact like a turtle in his shell.

He flicked his cloaking back on, wandering through the darkness of the night as if he belonged there. Even though the other man was a hunter, and pretty skilled at his job to boot, Spy felt rather safe approaching his camp. It was late, he had his cloak on, and the man couldn’t be alert all the time.

As it so happened, Mun-Dee Mick Mundy was on the move anyways. Spy caught sight of him removing the brake blocks to toss them into the side storage, and after they were snapped down and locked, Jacques realized the man intended on driving away. The sniper wandered around the vehicle, stepping up and into the interior causing the whole thing to rock with his weight. There wasn't much time. Spy hurried to the back of the vehicle while the sniper’s attention was well and truly guaranteed to be off him.

Leather gloves snatched at the ladder running up the RV, giving him the grip to haul his Italian leather shoes off the rocky ground, just as the mobile home lurched forward. Mundy was not entirely the safest driver on his home turf, trusting his instinct more than he should as he careened down the hill, but he wasn’t deliberately dangerous either. Spy however was stuck witnessing this from the back of a swaying RV, trying to scramble up to the roof as it got up to a fair speed and swung widely around curves, so his opinion might have been slightly biased towards the former. The tires spit gravel behind him as Spy threw himself up the ladder, hand over hand. The wind from travelling forward at such a speed caused him to squint against it while he pulled himself higher over the edge, and finally slithered up and over the end of the camper on his belly.

It was not comfortable, it was not clean, it was not safe, and it was really windy. Spy flattened like a rabbit avoiding being touched by someone it was going to bite. Handgrips up here were easy to find, weird things poked up all over the boxy shape, but nonetheless every weighty swing of the camper caused him to slide slightly and raised the fear of going over the edge should he slip. Dust roiled up and over the front from the gravel road, making him tuck his face into his arm to keep from coughing up a storm. Then, as if this was merely a rocky take-off, the world opened up all around him. The roads turned paved, the dust stopped, the hillside fell away from them, and there was nothing for miles but road and desert swallowing them up.

The sky was huge, open, the stars flickered towards the edge on one side while the sun lowered on the other. The skies colors faded from a deep rich blue on one end, velvet black intruding from the far end speckled with stars. It graduated into blues, richer, and then paler as they too faded into apricot and gold. The moon rose heavy and white, pristine looking due to the closeness of the sun which had dipped behind the hills the last sliver of painful light snapping away for the evening. Around them, as Spy pulled himself up to sit, was an endless waste. It made the vehicle feel tiny in the vast tracts of emptiness. Open for miles of rambling ground, stones rising up out of the arid landscape between sagebrush and sand. It looked like an alien world. He breathed deeply, the breeze crisp and filled with salt from the ocean hidden behind the rise of dirt to the right. There were seagulls normally, but they were sleeping for the moment leaving everything void of life and the silence was heavy.

The stars were brightening, the cloak of night falling over everything as Mundy’s little home trundled up the road like an armadillo. It coasted off to the side after some miles, into a little rest stop, the orange lights focused on a huge low billboard showing a woman holding a tube of toothpaste. They hummed that crackling hum of lights doomed to die shortly, as the RV came to a hissing stop on the gravel, bumping and rocking as both it and the dust it threw up settled down into the ground. The rest stop itself was rickety, clearly somewhere to slum it rather than anything well-kept. Spy wrinkled his nose in faint disgust, and Sniper slid out of the cabin. He didn’t even look back at the RV, just headed with a crunch of gravel and the jingle of keys towards the boxes near the building. He shoved the keys into his pocket, coming out with a handful of quarters to replace it.

It had taken him a moment to recognize the payphone near the large marked camping spots that would allow someone to park their RVs and trucks for the night, tucked in relative safety under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Mick on the other hand had recognized it straight off from what Jacques assumed were many visits, sidling over to what looked like a favored perch. He proceeded to line up his quarters, some wrapped and other unwrapped, along the top of the payphone to declare his territory. He’d be claiming it for quite some time if Jacques were to hazard a guess by the amount visible.

The spy flattened on the camper top, curling up like teenage girl watching someone dreamily as it was the most comfortable position. He laid a cheek into his folded arms and watched, becoming nothing more than another a dark shape among many on top of the thing, and within perfect earshot of Mick as he began the process of ringing up what sounded like his parents. Spy memorized the number for another time, and cocked an ear to listen.

“Oi Da… yeah noice to hear yeh too,” the pauses were incessant, “Doin’ well?” each one a break for the other end to speak, “Don’t scare the sheep too badly.” He had a habit of wiping his nose, and fidgeting, “Wot? No! I ain’t comin’ back to take over the ranch.” And he shifted his whole body to lean against the phone before long, “Well, Da, if you remember I got a job. I’m doin’ foine at it-- no you know what put mum on. Da, put-- Da. DA! Put Mum-- no it’s ok-- Mum. Put mum on-- No don’t-- Mum. MUM. THANK YOU.”

The way he moved actually made Jacques laugh silently to himself, shoulders shaking. The exasperation of the situation was writ large on the other man’s face and body as he flicked a hand violently somewhat like Spy's usual habit. It was like he was shooing flies, or trying to explain to another person how annoying his Dad actually was. Long legs stretched out in the dust as he adjusted his weight, waiting impatiently by walking slightly around within range of the phone cord. After he circled a few times like a dog, he twirled in place to lean against the box in a new fashion. Bored, and waiting--

“Ah! Oi Mum, how’s things? Good eh, oi’m glad,” he smiled warmly and from here Spy could peek over the edge and see the crinkle around his eyes. A genuine warmth to his smile made Jacques sink lower in his spot doing similar. It was nice to know this was another one who truly loved his family. He was going so far out of his way to chat them up it was obvious, but the smile just sealed the deal for the lil peeping Tom up on the RV top.

Mundy wrapped his hand around the phone’s mouthpiece, leaning in to cradle it while gazing into the middle distance, “Oi did some nice work today. You shoulda seen it. Took a woild shot off the hip, and took out a real chargin’ bear. He dropped loike as nothin’ else. Drank some of that special coffee you sent for my birthday too. It’s so nutty! You moight as well have sent me squirrel poo. But I bloody love it, thank you Mum.”

A lizard scuttles under a rock, and Mundy shifts again, toeing at the ground with one boot-tip like a hoof, “Oi’ve been keeping well. Made some friends like I _outghta_ ," his tone is teasing, "Not a bad bunch of blokes here. S’roight, they got a couple’a jokesters as always. A lil bratty kid, oi swear ain’t of age but he yells elsewise. Oi’m afraid to admit oi like the joey. Gets into scrapes more often than a troublesome sheep. Speakin’ of, how’s the farm?”

The sniper lights up, changing his grip on the phone as a tinny voice comes through, excited, “Three new head? Since just last week? Oi’ now that’s a lambin’ season start. We’re gonna have loads of ‘em by the toime summer comes around.” He pauses, rubbing his nose and gazing off, “Yeah, yeah, oi reckon I can take a week off here, help round ‘em up for everythin’.”

He laughs, loudly, and Spy blinks off some of the slight doze he was falling into from getting so comfortable curled up where he was. Listening to the rumbling comforting voice drone about nothing was not helping his focus, “Oi’m not brinin’ the joey. God mum, you lookin’ ta start rumors? Oi agree, he is good material. Fast little thin’ but he ain’t got the attention span fer sheep mind. Oi might bring down moi other friend though.”

He bites his lip gazing off, “Yeah, he’s Scottish, Demo. He loikes chasin’ stuff and blowin’ it up. He’d get along great with ol’ Ricky. They’ll be lightin’ up with XXX before noon you watch ‘em. But he’s a good man in a pinch--” his expression changed growing pinched, “Hey now, don’t complain. You know oi ain’t one for friends. Oi already know how I’d kill these two, makes ‘em safe roight? Yeah mum, you know me, oi got an exit and an execution. M’sorry. Hey don’t worry, maybe oi won’t need ta do this batch in, yanno? We’re all in a weird place together, maybe they’ll know how to keep bloody shut of it after we’re done.”

Spy shifts as Mundee gathers another coin, slipping it into the machine with a soft clink. Well there was that whole murder thing, not that he wasn't on the same page. He ignored it for now, and focused on the fact it seemed Mundy really was going to stay there a while. The other information was gold already. Spy figured he’d be able to come down here any time he saw the man going out, and be able to catch a good rendition of whatever drama would happen between the men back at the war. But for now, he’d caught himself nodding off, the warm desert air and the comfortable place to spread out was doing nothing to help him stay awake.

With a cautious air, Jacques made his way back, subtly acknowledging he wasn’t going to get off the machine without a few noises. Luckily, Mundy was starting to get into a full on fight with his mother, raising his voice to be heard over her, “Mum! There’s no way!” A large hand latched onto the coins at the top of the box and started rhythmically lifting and dropping them. Thud-clinkclinkclink, thudclinkclinkclink.

“Oi’m not bringin’ any of ‘em home loike that. Oi don’t care how much you’d loike ta see me happ- mum. _Mum_!” Spy hesitates, just inches from the ground under the cover of all the noise the sniper’s making, “Oi’m not interest-- Oi know you’re lookin’ forwar-- Mum please. Oi don’t care how many sheep oi 'dated' alroight. Lil girls marry their stuffed teddies all the toime an' no one teases 'em. Just ‘cause oi liked the rams mo-- _They had horns_! Horns are cool! Loike racin’ stripes or flames. Oh, bugger-- will you get off this nonsense about me bringing home a man? Look oi moighta been a quiet lil dink, but just ‘cause oi didn’t like tusslin’ don’t mean anythin’ about my preferences... Mum oi love yah, but I’m shootin’ yer favorite sheep you call me that again.”

Spy touches down with a soft noise of amusement, opening the side door almost silently so he can slip into the cab of the RV. He slinks into the passenger side seat, and finds the windows are down, the AC knob twisted entirely off. He peeks around the cabin, expecting it to be a bit of a mess considering the man outside seemed to rarely want to come in even here but… it was nice. Surprisingly clean. Spacious for such a tiny RV, with the sleeping quarters tucked right above his head. A blanket fell down slightly giving it away, and he peered past it into the dark. The outside lights fell through the windows and lit up a sitting area with a lipped table holding a few boxes of gun parts. A small kitchen lurked near the back, and he could easily see room for everything except, to use the bushman’s lingo, a 'dunny'. A shovel hanging near the back door answered that question handily too.

There were magazines settled everywhere, mostly girls and guns, but also a few for wild game and plenty of Saxton Hale. He even spotted the corner of a worn out Taxidermy book peeking out of a basket of trashy novels. Spy can’t help the smile listening to the raging man outside, he was slowing down again, the conversation had turned away from his sexual choices (which Spy, was casually putting off thinking about) to something calmer.

The man was laughing now, and Jacques decided he felt fond over the man’s choice of favorite hero considering what a standard Australian Saxton was. He turned instead to the tiny bobblehead lodged on the front dash. He poked it, curiously, and the little purple man nodded his head furiously, angry at everything and nothing. The chair he took over turned out to be heavily cushioned, the driver’s side was as well. A small plate of instructions showed how to turn the things around too, making them part of the rest of the room. If Sniper had wanted, he could easily entertain 6 people in this tiny little cabin, at least insofar as a card game or two.   

He always seemed alone though, never asking for anyone to join him, quiet as the grave unless he had something important to say. He seemed to nap more than he did anything else. Spy was surprised to find he was looking into the life of someone who wasn’t actually as boring as he came off, and hesitated at that thought. Maybe he just didn’t care for being friendly with a group of people he had clearly stated he would kill, and had been killing the entire time he’d known them. With his mother teasing him on top of everything--

And there was that. After pawing around and snooping and sticking his nose in everything he could reach from his chair without disturbing or moving it, Spy was stuck thinking about the conclusions he’d drawn from that conversation. Mick was used to the ribbing from what he could hear, and while against it, he wasn’t entirely _against_ it. He hadn’t sounded that offended to be honest, just annoyed that it’d come up again. Spy knew America was a little bit loose on their morals, the 60’s had done their part with weed and Woodstock, and he’d even seen a few bathhouses around that were most definitely not for bathing. He assumed an advanced culture like Australia, regardless of how stupid it’s people were, would be similarly advanced in acceptance.

He instantly waved that thought away, no that was a dumb assumption. People who didn’t have to work hard usually found NEW ways of hating people, not less. He could hardly do anything with this information though. He could get him fired, but why? He was a good shot, and good with people. He’d been keeping an eye out and culling fights here and there, and he drove people to town whenever they needed a lift. He could blackmail him, but unless he wanted a sheep that sounded ridiculous. Anyways, if he started an investigation about who happened to have deviances there’d be… questions towards himself. He didn’t want to deal with that, so he ducked his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes hard. It had dwindled down to another secret he’d never tell anyone. He could feel the triumph of finding out something no one else knew dying down to an still-warm ember. It would never be bragged about, and he would have to enjoy the warmth of it alone, oh well, still a win.

At least he wasn’t alone now either. He may have had a fair share of women lovers, but the occasional man hadn’t passed his notice. Hell, back in the war camps, he’d had the misfortune to notice other men at a time when one got shot for that sort of thing. Mostly before you left the shower. Better drainage. He reflected on their community, a bunch of straggling oddballs, and shook his head. If anywhere, this would be not that bad. Except perhaps that soldier, Jane Doe, if anything he’d probably flip his lid first what with the hate of hippies and their free love. He’d heard the scout making rude remarks about beating this shit out of people who were into the same sex to sound tough. Who knew what’d happen in terms of reactions after that. No, best to put this aside. He knew the man’s home phone number, where he approximately grew up, learned about his family, and voice patterns much more than anyone would expect. That meant this was an utter success. His fingers itched for a cigarette, but there was nothing for it.

Jacques nearly jumped out of his skin when the door handle clicked. He cloaked with great haste as the man outside cursed and dug for his keys. He’d almost gotten caught, sitting in the man’s personal space, but the sniper seemed to be preoccupied by yawning and rubbing at his eyes. The call must’ve ended on a good note, because he had a smile on his lips when he slid into the cab. He slammed the door behind him, rocking the whole thing and sending more lizards scurrying away from the noise under the orange lights. Mundy turned on the machine, the clicking noise and then a hum pulling the rover to life, and he reached out to the dials and knobs in front of him. Methodical, a pattern he regularly did.

Music blasted out of the radio, and Spy relaxed, breathing now without fear of being caught anymore under the sounds of Elvis being a hound dog. Windows rolled down, Mundy sang along loudly, half hanging out the doorway on the way home. There was less of an open wide feeling, indoors kind of implied confinement after all, but it was still gorgeous. The moon was high overhead by now, swollen with light. Spy leaned his head out of the window on his side, carefully resting his chin on his arms to gaze out into the desert.

The seats were comfortable, the weather beautiful, and the closer they got to the ocean the better the breezes kicked up smelling of the chill of night and sea, meeting the lingering heat of the desert and sun. He closed his eyes. Just soaking it up. Even though Mick had no idea he was in his van, this was… companionable. He didn’t think there’d be much of a change even if the man realized he had someone there, so long as they were friendly.

Ah but wasn’t that the hitch. He had a choice between reputation and friendship, and reputation kept people away. At arms length he never had to really worry about them, not more than he was willing. They didn’t expect him to turn around and go out of his way for them. Rather they thought it was only a matter of time before he turned on the rest of the team, so they were kind of flighty with him around. Good, for a bunch of paid mercenaries, but still openly uncomfortable. He sighed in tune to the song, low and nearly silent as their mountain home rose up beside them. His time pretending he was invited was up.

The sniper pulled his van back to where he’d been, and for a second Spy worried the man would stay in the cabin with him and just go to sleep making his escape more of a trick. Mick however, got out of the van dutifully, an action Spy mimicked in sync to hide his escape. The sniper slammed his door, the spy closed his carefully, then without waiting to see the man put the blocks under the tires, Spy was out of there. He smoothly headed out into the darkness, using the moon to guide him.

Jacques had to recharge ever so often on the way back up, but the going was easy on the moonlit gravel. He went over his mental list while he was there, he’d hit the engineer, the pyro, the medic and Heavy with surprise guest Spy, Sniper, Demo, and of course Jane… Ah, the scout. It was late, but if he wanted to do things right he should at least check on the Jersey kid from his team, what was his name? Ken something, Kenneth? Kenneth Dennis. His parents had no sense of rhythm for names.  

The kid, Spy actually reflected he didn’t know his age, but decided to keep calling him that nonetheless, had secured one of the bunks closest to the war games, usually kept for transfers. He didn’t seem to give a shit about anyone else being around, treating the place like a summer camp. The upshot of this for Jacques was that meant he could walk straight up to his door and check if he was inside without even the slightest bit of work. So he did. He slipped up against the wall and leaned, pressing his ear against the door, and listened for the sounds of occupation.

Squeaking was the first thing he heard. Spy frowned to himself not quite parsing where that could be coming from. It wasn’t quite rhythmic, like the kid’s name. He listened harder, and there was soft rustling and a sudden loud thocking noise that was followed by a muffled yelp. Spy shied back for a second, then leaned again. Silence for a few breaths, and then the rhythmic sound started building up again, followed by a soft cry of ‘oh yeah’ or something similar and Spy was done. That was just about all the spying he was doing tonight.

He rapidly backpedaled from the door, there was not enough time in the day for him to listen to that kind of activity like some sort of creeper. He shook his head, internally repeating nope in his head as he trotted up the staircase leading towards the upper parts of the map. That had been quite enough knowledge about that scout to be getting along with. For the first time, he genuinely wished he had respawn amnesia when he was killed. Removing the last 5 minutes sounded like a great plan just about now. He wrinkled his nose, and slipped back towards the kitchen where the pyro had been a few hours before.

Jacques had to admit, even if privately and only to himself, what he had now was a list of people who weren’t as horrifying as he thought they might be. After all, they had been mostly a bunch of people paid to slaughter each other before he went among them for secrets. Instead he found himself, beyond a few horrifying discoveries, fairly fond of the lot of them. They were quirky, unusual. The outcasts and dregs of society done up in neat little tolerable bundles. He glanced around the room carefully, before uncloaking. With no one around it was simpler to not, after all it was about the time most of them hit the hay for the early reville Soldier liked to bellow in their ears.

It’d been a long while since he exercised his particular brand of charm on a kitchen. He’d been raised with fingers dipped in pots, and after the other war he’d spent more time than ever working with food. After all, that was the easy way into any place. Backdoors always opened into kitchens and being good in a kitchen meant no one questioned why you were there they were just thankful for the help. And older ladies hardly complained when young upstarts begged them for recipes, even if they were secretly using them to learn the language.

He worked quickly, abusing their supplies, after all he was used to putting out large amounts of food in a short period. So it didn’t take long to have a small array of cakes, cookies, and a tray of tarts set out to cool on the counters. It was amazing what you could slip into ovens at the same time with judicious use of space and racks. He stood over the snacks, gazing at them with a sharp eye, carefully selecting the best of the best for himself. A few raspberry tarts here, a handful of cookies, a slice of his favorite cake… Well he did have a little bit of a guilty pleasure.

The rest was abandoned to the crew. Maybe he was getting too affectionate, but it didn’t worry him any. The lot of them weren’t on his target lists, and they would have no clue he’d cooked, let alone why he had. It was a weird sort of affection, or repayment for them unknowingly letting him into their world. He slipped a tart into his mouth, and stopped at a clear stretch of wire fencing.

A glance left and right proved the area was empty, and he tilted to casually peer up at the security camera on the corner. It always paid to check, even if that camera was broken, and pointed the wrong direction. Nothing out of the ordinary he leaned back into the chain link. The soft ch-chink noise was the only betrayal as the carefully cut wires peeled away from their brethren in a page turn effect. He tipped into the opened slice and stepped onto the field.

Crickets chirped, hiding in the bedraggled grass that tucked itself around the corners surviving on rainwater alone. The surf was loud outside the field, giving a soothing oceanic background noise that he very much favored. It was chill, the chill of a summer night and he gazed around with pleasure. He loved deserted areas. It felt to him like they still retained the heat and movement of the day, and in night they were filled with a bouncy energy waiting to be used again. An energy focused on him as he darted across the field with his armload of snacks, keeping carefully out of camera shots on his way across the field.

Technically he wasn’t supposed to be out here when the war wasn’t going on. Technically a lot of things he did weren’t supposed to happen. The amount of care he had about these rules was nonexistent. Completely ignoring them he had instead claimed one of the tallest towers in the area as his safe little haven away from everyone else. It had been locked up tight, abandoned as a useless prop by the original creators. Haphazard in construction on the outside, inside he’d taken great pains to make himself a home. The wooden walls had been reinforced, or in some cases completely worked over and the inside, well, it spared no comfort since he had a four year contract and highly doubted he’d be leaving anytime soon.  

The first few floors were open, and smudged with soot from soldier blasts and pyros alike, hiding the fact that the upper levels had been taken over. He slipped up the stairs, popping open the locks with his keys. Two locks, just in case. It never hurt to be a little more protective over areas so constantly frequented after all. But after that, and another empty floor, he was high enough for his home away from France to begin.

It was all original material, nothing twisted or changed. The bottom floor was a sitting room.  Gorgeously appointed, he had spared what looked like no expense but it was funny what you could have requisitioned, or auctioned at low prices. Plush sitting chairs, settled on a fancy carpet in front of a chimney that emptied smoke out of an entirely different building for example. The paintings on the walls were actually his own art, faux versions of famous paintings, which he had added himself to. He’d been exercising his skills copying great works he could sell later, and well-- one tended to have a bit of fun when things were just practice.

There were cabinets and globes, drinks ready to sip after a long day, and places to curl up with a good book from the various cases of them settled against the walls. He adored this room, for the smoky heavy feel. Like a really expensive jazz club, where he could cuddle up with a smoke and a drink and relax. No more woes of the day, just creature comforts. Probably meat and cheese too if he wasn’t particularly out of it. It was also a great hidden room to take guests, as the next level was anything but easy to spot.

A hidden staircase was logically behind a bookcase because that’s just the way things were done (the book to pull, because there were always books to pull, was The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene. He thought he was funny.) Said staircase led right up the curve of the building all the way up. with a small extra wide section for each floor. Be bounded up it carefully, hand against the old wood feeling the cool of the night encroaching on the double layers of security, until it opened up into the kitchen. He’d taken forever to get the plumbing installed since he had to bribe and blackmail his way into them. In the end, people assumed it was a Helen ordered change to the battlefield. He wasn’t doing to disabuse them of the notion.

There was a window, overlooking the sea and he continued to bring the sea indoors into the blues scattered around the French kitchen. Simple whites brought the blues out, a tile floor, and silver fixtures. A fridge barely big enough for him, a stove, sink, cabinets with dark blue plateware and silver cutlery, essentially a clean cut pretty little kitchen with the barest notion of black making it a cheerful happy little cozy nook. Granted it was small, and he had a tiny table near the window for him to sit at for breakfast, but it was his and nice.

He passed it by without much of a case, heading to the next floor, 3rd in rank of his habitable areas was the bathroom. Slightly smaller technically, the lack of appliances meant the room was actually fairly large. French doors existed on either end of the building, opening into balconies designed to look like chunks of stupidly placed wood from the outside, with additional cloaking technology similar to his suits concealing his doors entirely from below. Windows were one thing, doors were quite another after all. One pair opened onto the sunrise in midsummer, the other on the sunset, and when they were both open the world skimmed by in the form of seagulls and breezes off the sea.

He opens them now onto the gorgeous moonlit flats of desert on one side, and sea on the other, fingers tracing over the tub in the center of the room. Posh porcelain, black tinted with clawed gold feet, and carefully set so that multiple beams held it up even when it was totally full of water. The facet was to the side so he could reach it laying down, and a shower built into the ceiling. Sure it took extra piping, but the effect was that the water came from above with nothing blocking his view while he stood there, except the curtains whose rod was inset into the ceiling itself to hide the top of them from view when he pulled them down around himself.

The building was, he reflected, a window into his personality. The first floor was rich, snotty, and well appointed. It fairly leaked power and luxury so that anyone lucky enough to get there would be able to see how fancy and strong he was. Similar to how he wore his suits, his charm on his sleeve to make people fall hopelessly in love with the man of mystery he wanted to be to them. To look at him and breathe respect. The kitchen was bright and open, lighthearted but clean. The next step into knowing him he supposed was that, just this little opening, just this sign he wasn’t all over the top luxury but clean cut and strong. Something only friends and family would ever really see. He was functional, but not an over the top show of power and plush living like one might think at first glance. Somewhere he could show affection through food.

He snorted to himself and shook his head, like he’d just done in the main base kitchen no less. He felt soft for a moment. And now here he was in the next level, his secrets peeled away entirely. Safe, warm, protected, and able to see the situation from all sides without being seen at all himself. The only place he could let his hair down so to speak. Nimble fingers played with his buttons, unhooking them and pulling off his suit as he went. Layer after layer, his jacket first, the vest next, his white long sleeve button up under that. He tossed aside his tie, and pulled at his mask. It was if once the idea finally hit home he could be free he was doing it all at once just to get it off. To get out of the constricting fabric.

His hair is dark, longish but combed back over his ears for so long that it falls that way even with the mask removed. He runs his fingers through the greying temples, the salt and pepper leading from his brow back, to give some volume to the hair flattened by the mask. He strips his pants and shoes off, leaving himself in black boxer briefs in a cut he’d been wearing for years, and a white wifebeater. His bare feet smack against the linoleum as he circles the shower.  His back is scarred, long slices across it which become apparent as he skims the tank top up and over his skin, tossing it to the side and grabbing a big fluffy towel.Off come his skivvies and he turns on the shower, letting the water clank and spit. Rusty at first it takes time to heat up, letting steam billow up from the drain. He flicks the shower to on, dragging the curtain around it, and steps in, long lanky legs supporting his weight nicely. Without his mask, the age at the corner of his eyes and the soft sag makes him look more like an aging gentleman than ever, and his hawk nose looks less hawkish and more broken without the mask softening the lines. His scar over his right brow is wide, going up and under the mask just a touch. Enough that without it it was a bit of a treat to see both ends of it let alone the rest.

Without the suit he’s lankier, body trimmed close enough he could almost be underweight if he didn’t put effort into remembering to eat. Sometimes he forgot, old habits died hard, but when he did eat it was a comfortable healthy amount. Anyone of his team could vouch that the man had a habit of furiously chewing and swallowing so he could correct them all on facts and ideas at the table like some sort of angry wasp, trying to stick it to them for their ignorance.

He reached for the soap, lathering up with the smells of pine and coffee. Manly scents, well expected, but both deodorizing. He’d noticed quickly that his cloaking didn’t cover for scent, and many times he’d become paranoid that he’d be caught because of it. So he took action against it. He got soap which would destroy his natural body odors, leaving him a ghost on the battlefield between the stench of blood and gunpowder. Other scars dotted the body he soaped up, a deep cut on his hip like someone had stabbed him. Small pockmarked circles all over his wrists where he’d taken up the habit of putting out his cigs. Another hiding trait, ash marks on the walls and stubs with DNA on them were hardly things one left hanging around. So he put them out on himself, and then threw them away safely in his fireplace when he arrived home.

The scars on his back, now more visible from the lack of shirt told their own story, whiplashes. Long healed, long before this war had even become a reasonable place for him to exist. While the cig scars were lighter, they were more recent after all and respawn was wearing at them since they didn’t all belong on his original template, these scars were heavy and real. Like the cut in his brow and the one on his hip they were deeper pink and they were not fading as time passed. They were there for good. Other scars covered his body from recent war games, pyro blasts and bullet wounds all over his torso and legs, but they were the faintest white, and would wear out ‘in the wash’ of a few respawn cycles. Just silvery traces of pain that came and went like dreams.

There’s not much to his body beyond that, muscles and wiry strength that he scrubs the daily dirt and blood off with relish, turning himself pink and scrubbed. Not healthy perhaps, but who cared, he’d die soon enough that even if he scrubbed himself raw it would matter for maybe ten, fourteen hours? He liked the feeling of being religiously clean, the kind of clean a priest made you feel when he made you bathe in ice water using burlap for a cloth. The kind that made your skin feel cold even when it was hot. Properly rinsed, hair tamed with an oil conditioner after a deep shampooing, neither scented really, he slipped out of the shower and scrubbed himself again with the fluffy white towel waiting for him. He had a thing for fluffy white towels.

After that, after finally feeling human again, he relaxes even further, abandoning his dirty outfit in the shower room for the moment with the doors flung wide. He enjoyed a little rush of power over the act, he didn’t have to deal with the mess until tomorrow, and even then he could do it after work. He wouldn’t be spending hours hounding anyone, he could come back and relax. Tonight though, he could simply ignore it like a diva with a servant and haughtily carry his older 42 year old body up the stairs, wrapped in an old well loved teal robe he’d gotten in India at some point in his travels.

This was the next step, the next extension on his mind and self if he cared to explore the mental metaphor some more. His true internal self, his bedroom and place where he would likely spend most of his time if he ever had the luxury. He pulled a wry smile at his bed, oh the surprises people would see. He’d had a trampoline cut to fit a corner, new bars installed, and then hung and bolted to the walls so that he had a completely free-standing bed with no springs to speak of. A thick foam mattress topped that giving support without anything digging into his hips, which he hated. Over top of it was a hoop with netting on it, which kept mosquitoes out when he happened to leave the balcony door open for the night. That and another layer made him feel mysterious and swaddled up in cloth so he could play that he still had deeper layers yet.

The bed under the netting was a catastrophe though, where neat prim things were probably what was expected, it was a mishmash of blankets and pillows. He collected them both, and so the bed was a testament to that collection. He could probably drown in there. This was barely an exaggeration. Nothing matched, not really, and that’s just the way he liked it. Able to pick out whatever suited him best for a night and then nest in among the rest. He supposed he was a bit like a dragon.

Otherwise the room was cozy, smaller than both the last with extra wood on the walls here and no window. Simply that balcony which when closed sealed off all light entirely. He did not hold with people who woke by the sun in any case. Overhead was one of the finer features he’d had built into the room, a big clockwork device that worked with the switch in the wall to have 3 settings. The first, a golden sun whirred into position in the center, the iris opening entirely to bathe the room in bright golden light. In middle position, the iris closed partially to form a moon, and hundreds of smaller lights turned on, all a dimmer more comforting blue that made it look like a moon and stars. Off, clearly just killed all the lights. It was fanciful and over the top and he was getting paid 5 million a year, no one could stop him.

Maybe it was petty childishness that made him deck things out like this, he swayed towards the bed, and then sighed falling prey to his paranoia again. There was one last room, and if he didn’t check on it it’d itch and bake in his skull all night and ruin his comfortable thoughts about the others. Another short jot of stairs brings him to the finally tiny room, which while small around went up quite some ways. Shelves upon shelves of books, and instruments. Even weapons stolen off the field between respawns had found their way up into the collection. He had a desk to sit at, with a lamp to keep him focused, as well as enough maps, tools, and notes to make him look like he’d gone straight up insane in his time here.

So basically the usual spy home. He snorted at himself, no one was there, and he highly doubted anyone would be on the roof where he typically hid out for a smoke. Mostly because the trap door he typically crawled out of was latched shut from the inside. If someone had managed to get up there on the tippy top of the highest tower in Upwards, then they had a long night coming because he wasn’t going to go nipping up the wooden ladder, which functioned doubly as a way to get to his many many books, any time tonight.

Jacques ghosted back down the stairs, and glancing around, flung himself into the bed like a teenage boy. His hair ruffled on the pillows as he gave a sedate lazy grin at the ceiling, sprawled out and able to settle any way he liked. Time to-- well, it had been time to think about all he’d learned, maybe jot down a few notes but gazing up at the ceiling through his netting he didn’t really have a chance to. He was just gone, eyes closing, and soft snores rising up from his lips. The old man had meant to hit the hay later, but the hay hit him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, I was worried about how long it took me to write this, then I realized the first three chapters were 16k altogether, and this one broke 14k by itself handily. That took a load off my shoulders. Now to write the next one and question why I started posting this before I finished writing the ends of all the chapters.


	5. Of Medics and Malarkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The RED medic makes a brand new device which revolutionizes the game, while trickery and bad ideas turned into live experiments end up costing him some happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Canon typical violence.

It was several months down the line when the crazy scheme the Medic had been up to actually came to the fore. A while ago, Medic had developed a gun that worked in his laboratory to keep people alive while he experimented on them. Although Spy was a little bit leery of it, honestly no one seemed to come out with less working than they started with. More, yes, on occasion, but a few extra organs never actually seemed to hurt anyone. Demo seemed to enjoy the second liver.

Spy though, Spy remembered the bobble head that had once been a man. A man who once prowled around murdering them silently before his current situation confined him to the Medic’s laboratory. The tool had appeared in short order after the snippet of conversation he’d listened into. Just there, hanging red and ominous in the lab. Positioned above one of the wide metal tables suspended in the air. Medic jabbered off the cuff exactly what it was for, surprising them all considering the way the man delighted in causing severe injury. The man for once was furthering healing, science, the development of better medical procedures. They’d been using dangerous chemicals for months to keep alive just a little longer on the field.

It would have been nice of them to mention exactly how experimental those medkits had actually been on reflection. The chemicals in them after further inspection proved to not actually officially exist. There were no warnings, no worries since they ‘magically went back to normal’ through the respawn device. Jacques simply believed the load of mercs were just guinea pigs to the mad scientist’s designs. All because they signed up for it, said yes with their name on a plain piece of paper that now dictated their fate.

But that was the days past and now this great hulking thing had become somewhat of a basic tool for everyone. Whenever battle ended, instead of letting themselves be slaughtered, people could now choose to take their weary battle-worn bodies into the medical bay and have the medic shoot them. With a simple few moments to charge, light brightening at the edges, it would shoot out a sort of foggy light. It hummed low as it expended its power into your body, simple as using one of those new microwaves. It was-- warm, it tingled a little, pain just stopped once it interacted with your nerves. Nothing mattered anymore, and suddenly you feel nearly giggly with relief. 

The sedating effect, which is what Spy intended to think of this warm fuzzy feeling, was great for people with gaping wounds. It left them almost comfortable while watching the skin and torn muscle that came with their bloodied wounds seal back up over slightly misplaced organs with a minimum of fuss. The medic even proved that he was able to master the finer uses of it, such as using less juice to keep people out of it and content, while not progressing their healing at all. Open chest surgery had gotten a lot more common after that, especially since no one died on the operating table. As their scout had mentioned, it didn’t hurt until later, and you got a free lollipop. Certainly by him a measure of how much trouble it actually was, even if his chest cooed occasionally.

Sugar was a great tool for manipulation for others too as it turned out. That and friendship, if one went by how often the Heavy ended up rubbing his chest over freshly healed skin, still slightly tight and pink from a brand new incision that had been recently closed. It didn’t help the theory when he also spent a large amount of time laughing behind closed doors with the other man. They’d gotten used to that too, budding friendship wasn’t something anyone was going to openly complain about in any case. Especially not with a man who literally held their lives in his hands each and every day. 

Including today, a day that never really left Spy’s memory. The opposite team had never stopped sending cloned, or rather prespawned Soldiers. Neither had they, to be honest, but at least they seemed to have a modicum of sense. Don’t send too many copies of the same man all gathering memories simultaneously, you never knew what kind of mental fuckery you’d cause. The BLU’s hadn’t seemed to have thought of his, and that day was a particularly bad one. 

Hundreds, thousands even. Men swarming over the grounds like ants. Slightly different, hats and weapons changed, but otherwise they moved in a stuttering chaotic force, any sense of a pattern derived from the fact that inside his skull it was all the same man, rushing for the same target with ferocious yells and uplifted weapons. Guns fired, men shot themselves into the sky. Their thick boots rattled the gravel as they came ferociously from above. Every RED was damaged. The med kits were scavenged, wrapping up broken limbs as they tried to make due until the next respawn, to survive just a little longer.

The violence was pretty predictable by now, but the onslaught must have hit the medic wrong. Somewhere, a little flicker happened, and he was gone off the field with Heavy. Spy knew this, because between the screams for a medic and the dying cries of soldiers he watched in disbelief as the man abandoned the field. He snapped off a bitten insult in French. Back sharp angled with annoyance at him turning tail like a coward. But it wasn’t his problem, and without him his men would die. He set back to work.

Something wasn’t right though. Bodies disappeared on the field, it only took a few moments really. Today? The bodies, just kept building up. Something must’ve gone wrong with respawn, it wasn’t collecting, just extruding. Body after body, corpse to be after corpse to be. The thick slush of smashed bodies, and blood churning into the dirt was getting insane. Every landing the soldiers made was soft, as heads popped under their boots when they came down heavily. Maybe the excessive numbers of soldiers today weren’t entirely planned after all? Maybe they ruined the machine. In any case, the smell grew, the view was horrific.

After a while, he couldn’t do it anymore. The pile drove higher and higher, and each member of his team was torn up and battered. Even he was taking hits, invisibility didn’t stop anyone when weapons were firing and exploding everywhere he looked. The soldiers had stopped aiming, simply attacking because odds were someone would hit something. He’d seen the scout sailing across the field only to slam into a building from a well placed rocket. Demo was bandaged from nut to knock, and Engineer and Sniper had taken to hiding behind some of the larger rocks, letting the forces swarm around them in a thick wave of humanity.

He couldn’t breathe. He was tense, and took to the high ground, watching with disbelief at the disgusting masses. They would fail this war, they would fail because a glitch (because that is what this had to be) had unwound them. The war would be over that night, just, over. Trying to stop the BLU Soldier was an exercise in patience at the best of times, and thousands of them pouring in like ants was unimaginable. Even though they’d been set up to stop at a certain point while fighting, there was a chance this man would ignore their orders and over enthusiastically destroy everything with his rockets anyways. A flood of insanity and loudness. He might even rip the buildings from their foundations and wipe the entire base off the map in these numbers. 

There was a noise across the field, how he heard it with the yelling of the gruff repeated man below him he’d never know. Maybe it was because it was something different, something from where the horde hadn’t gotten yet, but when he turned standing high on the rock he could see the whole field below him as the massive doors swung open wide. Medic stood there, the familiar gun tucked on his hip hands clutching the device’s handles. A huge set of tubs were hooked to his back, electrical towers peeking over his shoulders like a mad scientist’s dream. He was grinning, as Doves flew up behind him in a mockery of a hopeful picture.

He turned his gun and shot the nearest people on the field, the scout’s missing tooth visible from across the field regrew, his eye unblackened. Demo’s bandages fell away as his loosened bandages were shaken off, completely healed. The wild look on the Medic’s face made Spy’s breath catch simply because the man was crazed with valor. He had something to do on the field besides hide, and fear. He had power now, strength. The Medic could finally do what he came to do. To heal, and heal at a speed that would matter on this field.

The Heavy plodded out in front of him, rubbing at his chest in the familiar song and dance. Another chest surgery, another day. He raised his gun, looking back at the medic, and the man shrugged, smiling and flicked a switch before hitting the giant of a man. Spy couldn’t see the reason, he was clearly healed, he’d just followed him back from the medic’s usual arena after all. Maybe he’d been an experiment that proved the gun worked. The red light coated him, expected, but then… got thicker. Rounder. The Heavy raised his gun, and shots fired from the Soldiers. Would he commit a round of suicide to get the Medic deeper into the field?

The smoke and explosions of the weapons hitting the large man made him fade for a moment, and Spy winced, expecting to see a hulking mass riddled with bullets when it cleared. Instead, with a mighty roar, Heavy unleashed from inside the fog bank, stepping forward looking nearly metallic with the power of the gun. His own gun, firing those expensive bullet, mowed down the soldiers like nothing else had before. They fell as he rose, the gun trained on his back. The medic laughed wildly, hiding behind the seemingly invincible man as he rose up the pile of bodies, building it higher, stronger. A mountain of flesh and death.  
They stood on top of the heap, thousands of soldiers beneath their boot heels as Heavy fired wildly clearing the battlefield like it was nothing. No bullets hit him, no one managed to stop him, he was… that gun was worth every moment any of them had spent under the knife. Spy felt that giddy relief sweeping him, dizzy with the knowledge. They could win, they could win anything with that. They had a power that no one else could understand. They could fix any wound, they could take any point. The RED Medic’s fierce grin said it all. They could win this war.  
The timer howled across the nearly empty waste, a few final soldiers dying in the deafening hail of bullets before it all went quiet. The settling of bodies, and the dripping of thick blood was all anyone could hear after that tornado of sound. The Medic flicked the switch off, the Heavy relaxed, and they both turned to look at each other with grins. Then the Medic was scooped up by the big man and squashed to his chest.

“Doktor! You are my best friend!” He declared loudly, proudly to everyone. The Medic sort of laughed, a faint hoo hoo of sound that made him sound like his doves.

“Well, i hope I am everyone’s friend after this!” He was jittering with nervousness. Spy uncloaked, and the rest of them slid down the meat and gore to settle near the front doors where the wave hadn’t quite gotten and then there was just celebrating. That’s all Spy could remember, a mass of cheering and hugging as they went inside, feeling better than they ever had. No injuries, no tired, no pain. Just the gun that gave them all a lift physically and emotionally.

***

Later that night after they were all sauced since Demo had broken out the drinks, and everyone had dived into the beer to celebrate a near impossible victory, Medic started talking shop. 

“Zis, would never haff worked on a normal person. Ja? We ar-- we are… special,” He said, waving his hands open in obvious contentment, “Special. Und we are gut at our jobs, but not too good.” He leaned back in his seat looking like he’d just explained everything.

The scout scratched his head, and Sniper nudged Medic’s knee, “Wot? I think you missed a step there.” Of course he wasn’t sloshed, professional terms and all. Spy snorted from his own warm little daze, gently nursing a tiny glass of port that Demo had said with a glint in his eye that Spy would have the tongue to understand. He was finding it just as agreeable as Demo had hoped and remembered to flicker him a warm smile over the rim of it a few times while drinking, which set the Scot to grinning.

“What?” The Medic asked, looking hopelessly lost for a second, his ability to put things in order hampered even further by the drinks he’d been plied with. He hiccuped miserably and stared at the bottle in his hand for a long moment instead.

Heavy nudged him, and boy his constitution was one to admire, “Doktor, why special?” He asked congenially and the Medic sat up with a start. Set right back up without a problem.

“Med kits! Ja, the-- the med kits,” he smiled beneficially and slumped back down, “We have, hoo hoo, a chemical cocktail in our blud. Dangerous, dangerous,” he started muttering brows pulling together darkly over his glasses, “But… but potent.” The last word hung on the air, thoughtful. 

He set his drink aside looking into the void as if he were alone in his shop, quiet. The scout opened his mouth and Heavy shifted, raising his chin and glaring down at his. The kid took the hint with a glower and sipped his beer instead. It was better to let the man eke out this information at his own pace, as infuriating as it was to wait, Jacques agreed.

“When ze BLU Spy died, and a few more chemicals fell somezing happened. Hoo, yes. Ja, something happened indeed. It took much time to recreate t-this… unique reaction. Elec--electrit-- power. Power and chemical mix with our very blood.” He raised his forearm and brushed his fingertips over the blueish veins peeking through. “Our blood, holds ze powers. Power to heal. Wir sind nicht mehr sterblich. We are no longer... mortals.”

The jovial air of the room had gone crisp and dark with this statement, Demo taking a long pull out of his rum and everyone’s eyes falling to the medic. The man smiled, lost behind his glasses, a million miles away. Probably living in some horror show from his past, reliving something he could now change, now alter, if he had the power, “We are gods.”

A quick finger wiped wetness from beneath his glasses, and he shook his head, “I have toned down the mixture, ja? The original was too powerful. Too much Australium, far too much, and we would be as living corpses. Unable to die, unable to change. Cursed… Now it is simple, a quick surgery, and-- I can make you immortal on de field!” He slammed his fist into the table in front of him suddenly, breaking the spell and making them all jump.

He’d sobered up now, eyes glinting with faint madness, the kind given to those minds that would change the way everything worked. he looked around at them each, “I will upgrade you, with or without your permission, and I will be able to flip the switch, and no one will touch you on the field for the duration. Limits, limits… will be imposed.”

The man sighed again, dipping back and reaching up to touch Heavy’s face mildly, a man with a pet, “He took internal wearing damage, more than I expected ja? It was too much for his metabolism to heal that quickly. Too much pain. So in the future it will be on limited time, and I will join you so that an enemy cannot… snipe me.”

Heavy rumbled and pulled away and the Medic seemed to snap out of it. The overt fondness was catching eyes, jealousy from a few people, that kind of openness was hard to get here. Spy cleared his throat carefully, “We will go under the knife.” He said it simply since Medic implied they had no choice, and to be honest they didn’t, not with the contract. The medic turned bright eyes on him and smiled, and Spy never felt so unnerved.

“I’m goin’ first, you losers ain’t gonna beat me to this finish,” the scout snapped, and Soldier laughed, slapping his shoulder as they all devolved into drinking and cheer again.

***

Sitting in the waiting room was pretty much nerve wracking. All of them quiet, having heard the much more sober medic talking about the problems they might encounter, and about multiple trips to respawn which honestly did not sound like any kind of fun. Spy crossed his legs, smoking dismally and sharing cigs with Soldier who’d ordered one off his when his nerves got to be too much. Honestly, he was surprised the Sniper hadn’t gone for one too, but then he was not a dispenser for all of them. The Engineer’s wrench hitting him on the battlefield had done nothing to change this. It was worse without the scout, the boy had a sort of air to him where he couldn’t let quiet situations lie, and at least if they were annoyed by him they weren’t thinking about what was coming. A sort of stress relief, one they were sorely missing since the brat had gone in first.

That was, up until the doors bust open and the younger mercenary trotted out, hands waving wide, “Oh ho ho MAN!” he yelled, grinning wide, “You would not believe-- how much this hurts.” He touched his chest lightly, and a soft cooing echoed from his rib cage followed by Medic turning around and raising his brow.

“Archimedes?”

A half hour later when the bird had been rescued from the scout’s chest and put in a damn cage for the remainder, Medic began working on the rest of the team at double time. Sniper, Demo, Soldier, Pyro, and Engineer went through the process ahead of Spy, leaving him just burying his head in his hands and glaring at the ticket the man had made them take to get in order. He hated waiting when he wasn’t the one causing it. It made him twitchy. He chewed on the filter of his cig, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together to make a soft susurrus with the leather on leather, soothing himself with the noise.

“Spy?” Medic asked, wiping his hands clean on a towel as Engineer waddled past, looking for all the world like his charm Southern dishes had given him a heart attack at last. He jerked his head, up at the sound of his class, and then slid to his feet following the medic into the laboratory with a severe case of butterflies in his stomach. 

“So, what do I have to take off?” he asked, stubbing his cigarette out on the inside of his forearm without thinking. The crisp burn and soft momentary scent of burned flesh hung in the air until he fluttered his hand back and forth. Medic peeked at the habit, and he shrugged, thoughtlessly. 

“Anything that gives me access to your chest! Maaaybe your mask?” he asked slyly, peeking under his lashes at him and Spy rolled his eyes.

“Non, zat is not my chest by any stretch of ze imagination,” he haughtily flicked his fingers, dismissing him. He slipped his jacket off, hanging it over a dove cage, probably by the blood stains the famed Archimedes. His fingertips traced the wire before he pulled the buttons free on his top, and with hesitation, as brief as it was, he snatched a blade from the table next to him and slit his undershirt from bottom to top. He didn’t want to disrobe in front of the Medic. 

“Shy?” the man asked, a sharp little smile back again and Spy remembered why he never let the man touch him more than needed, ever, at any time. No, there was a hunting look in his eyes, and it put him on edge. Predators circling each other. It was annoying though more than frightening. The doctor was easy enough prey, he’d had his throat slashed a few times pushing him too far and they were still on good terms.

“Non, simply protective of my secrets,” he said, with a wry smile. It wouldn’t do for the Medic to see his back, where the few whip lashes had bit deep enough to scar in his childhood. Far too easy to identify, really. Then he was settling into the gurney the Medic had set up and breathing deep.

“Und I hope you know I am teasing, ja? I prefer you with the mask, it is you,” the man said simply, dispelling a bit of the uneasiness even as he brought the gun to bear and the smoke roiled over Spy making him feel lightheaded and breathy. Ah, yes, this was as good at drugs to be honest, and Spy wondered if the Medic had ever partaken of it just for fun. He certainly would have, but then he had an addictive personality. 

“Gracias,” he said, rumbling and the Medic paused, then chortled another soft laugh as he got to work, boosting the table and carving into Spy’s chest like it was nothing with his bone saw. Not for the first time, Spy wondered why the hell they had to be awake for this process. But then, it also gave him a sense of control which he was thankful for, so he didn't complain.

“Now this is simple! We take out your heart,” the man’s gloved hand shoved into his chest, wrapping around the organ and Spy’s lungs clenched at the feeling of someone inside his body. Touching his organs. Pulling them from their normal safe hiding spaces. A flew nicks with the knife, and Medic was holding his heart. A faint ghost pumped blood loyally through where it should be, a half-reborn fragment of muscle the gun was pulling into life somehow. Spy breathed.

Spy breathed again. it never failed to surprise him when he survived having his heart removed.

“So zen, we toss on one of these little doohickies. I made it smaller for you. You have a very small heart,” the doctor laughed, “Do you think that’s a metaphor for anything?”

“Non,” Spy laughed too, the red haze dragging his nerves out and letting them spring back stretched and compliant. Sometimes it worried him how much he’d offer up under that ray. But this medic had enough trust to know he wouldn’t push for things.

“So talkative,” he joked, shaking Spy’s heart with a small device jammed viciously into the meat in his face, “You’re always so serious! Lighten up!” he said, using the heart like a prop for a few moments before jamming it back in past the ribs jutting up on either side. A swift punch, which Spy could have done without and the ribs were closed, only for Medic to draw back and pull the device to full power.

Jacques’s eyes crossed for a second, and then closed. He could feel the drain of energy from his muscles, pushing him tired, even as it renewed him. Muscle knitting, felt like itching and burning for a moment before subsiding, tight and pink and fresh. It felt strangely good, and he’d never admit that to anyone around here. No, this place was rife with new deviancy that would never ever set foot outside of his mind as far as he believed.

“There! All done, don’t use the microwave for a week, und get Engie to update your template. We don’t want to do this again if your respawn fails to tak it into account! I only have so many doohickies...” The medic paused, “I call zem ubers, do you like?”

“Mm, yes, ubers has a nice ring to it,” Spy said, still dazed until the ray was pulled off him, and switched off. The world was suddenly more cold, and his mind edged back to stability with ease. Nothing wrong, nothing upsetting. Medic slid across the room, popping open his fridge where the head snarled something short before meeting his eyes and dropping his cig in surprise. The door clipped closed, and medic handed him an ice pack lightly.

“You still, have him,” Spy said hesitantly, eyes not moving from the ice box as he took the pack, mindlessly setting it on his wound. 

“Hm?” Medic looked lost for a second, then turned back and forth in place and laughed, “Oh! Him! Ah, ja, ja. Und I have no idea what to do with him really.” He pulled two lollipops from his usual container, giving spy the choice of red or blue, raspberry or blueberry. Spy snagged the red and popped it into his mouth while Medic took the blue without complaint.

“Why haven’t you, ah, sent him back to ze other team?” Spy asked, drawing a finger across his throat while Medic shrugged gently. The man perched on a stool near him, neat little black boots drawn up on one of the rungs as he imitated his birds for a moment letting Spy button up his inner shirt.

“I’ve tried, time und time again. He is literally invincible, I cannot kill him,” he made a face gently, “He’s… lost. They prespawned him, ja? So this is just a-- spy camera! Hoo hoo!” he laughed and kicked himself back slightly on his seat, “Ooh! That was a good one! I should write that one down, Heavy would love it. Ah, ah,” he wiped a tear of mirth from his eye and saw Spy’s horrified look, he grinned sheepishly, “If he died, the other him would get all the knowledge he’s gotten, und that would be bad, ja?”

“... Ja,” Spy echoed, sighing deeply, the Medic had a point. Although how much the man could have seen from inside a fridge was left to be guessed at, “Couldn’t you do-- something to make him less, caught? Zis seems horrific, trapping him in zere with nothing to do.” He warily eyed the box, knowing deeply that had he been in the same situation it would be driving him insane. He didn’t want to think of what could happen if the other man was driven to the edge of his sanity.

Medic however was looking dazed over Spy’s shoulder, “You know, now that this experiment is complete, perhaps we can…” the man’s everything seems to halt, and Spy reaches for his jacket rolling off the gurney with his head tilted in curiosity. Medic snapped out of it and bustled around, grabbing tools, bottles. A jar with octopus limbs caused the RED to recoil back from him slightly before he was bashed with it.

“Out! Out! Und take your things with you. I am about to DO SCIENCE,” the man yelled, shooing him out with the Jar, and ignoring the pain of his chest, Spy swept his jacket up over his shoulders and obeyed slipping out of the room and adjusting himself neatly.

Sniper stood there in the corner, and for a moment they caught each other’s eyes, before the man slunk off into the night. Spy had a stark moment of realization that he’d been waiting for him, and since he’d left without hesitation upon seeing him… He smiled to himself and toyed with his tie as he fixed it straight. Maybe the other man was worried about him. That was-- nice. Like he was beginning to belong here among these 8 others...

***

It didn’t take very long before shit hit the fan again. The medic’s new device on the field meant a huge game changer for everyone else. Where it used to be the best option was push the other team back to the respawn points and hold them. People usually ended up sniping anyone who came out visibly, and spies were best utilized to give engineers long enough to set up their little monsters. The sentries would then keep people off the freshly spawned mercenaries long enough for them to shift the payload along until the next spawn point. Now though, people lived longer on the field with the little boost in health. Respawn was used less, and people were further along the field for longer spaces of time. 

Not only were they getting longer lives across the field to the raucous laughter of the medic, but they had moments of invincibility that sent the other teams scattering as anyone who wanted could go barreling into the other team, killing them left and right with melee and close quarters weaponry until the invincibility was switched off. This was particularly painful when you had an angry pyro or heavy at the other end of the device. Even the scout got involved, usually used as a suicidal distraction he suddenly actually caused serious damage with his speed not allowing the other team to get out of the way quick enough. The unfair advantage could only last so long.

Well, the unfair advantage the rest of the team was able to use anyways. The first night out Jacques saw it in use, it was… gorgeous, and simple. A man being hit hard by a hail of bullets could have his health ramped back to normal, the lethargy and pain wiped away by the forced metabolism shift that made his body knit itself back together. The price was hunger, of course, after it being used too often everyone was starving at meal times. But really all the medic had to do was keep close at the other man’s heels, and make sure his medigun was trained on him as he hacked and hewed his way around the field. 

It was when the medic turned away for someone crying out for attention that Spy saw the flaw in this mechanism. The god damn medigun left a fading trail behind the user, a hint of reddish energy that picked them out visibly like a sore thumb. It wouldn’t have bothered the other teammates, not really, the signal a Medic was nearby was actually protective as an influence. it kept the enemy team from getting too close in case he popped his Uber on them. So, while it was a wonderful tool for the rest of the crew, Spy was not so lucky. 

He rarely spent time near his own team in the first place. He usually ended up sinking himself as deep in enemy territory as possible to take them out early and often at choke points. Combined with that little red highlight that would make the other team spot him in seconds-- it just wasn’t worth the price of admission. Not even to be nearly invincible, something that the Medic never really wasted on him. He was not a rapid fire murderer like the rest, not suited to melee at that level. His best kills were done from behind, quietly, swiftly, and alone. It only got worse for him on top of that, he couldn’t go around yelling for a medic while cloaked, the enemy would easily find him, there was only one actually healing medic between them after all and anyone calling for his help had to be RED team. 

It was demoralizing. It killed him a little bit to realize how very unsuited for healing he actually was. He’d been watching the doctor develop this idea from the start, with a head in a fridge months ago. He’d been interested since the day he’d stalked into his lab to find out what he was doing, and he’d even gone through surgery for the stupid upgrade. 

He punched a fist into the nearest wall in the heat of battle when he realized everything, the RED pyro jogging past him slowing for a second to watch him grind his cigarette in his teeth, destroying the filter and letting the tobacco fall to the ground. He didn’t take long to pity himself though, a moment or two of fury, maybe, but then he neatly straightened his outfit. A moment of regaining composure through grooming and settling himself. Simple, clean, clear. Rage had no use to him now.

“It is what it is,” he said aloud to himself to seal the mental deal, ignoring the pyro watching him curiously as he turned on his heel and disappeared into thin air with a touch of his watch. He would simple be glad for the rest of the team having that head start, and use it to his advantage. He would take his anger out on the other team and leave the field soaked with the color of his team. 

Things worked, they had time off more than ever as battles were won quicker, and the management had to scurry to reset everything semi-constantly. So Medic, true to his word, actually started doing something for the BLU Spy head he had in captivity. He’d given them a name, finally, even though he professed it wasn’t his name at all he was simply getting tired of the head jokes. 

“Astor,” he snarled for the third time that day as medic tipped him in his hands openly. Jacques stood to the side, slightly unnerved by the fact that he’d been called into the room at all to be honest. 

“Ja, ja, Astor, I keep forgetting, why not Bleu?” Medic prodded the neck piece lightly, adjusting here and there.

“You speak it as an insult, Astor means hawk. It is bold! Strong! Masculine!”

“Bleu cheese is pretty bold,” Medic mumbled and Astor sneered at him.

“It will remain Astor, merde, it is easier to train cats zan you,” the head snapped his teeth, snagging his cigarette as it made a break for it when gravity tilted again.

Jacques cleared his throat, politely, and they both looked at him, before Medic blinked and jolted into gear, “Ah! Ja, you are here so I can show you my latest as I attempt it for the first time!”

“Where is your giant?” Jacques asked, head tilting and Josef’s face fell.

“He is in town, with Solly, apparently he had a plot Misha was willing to help with,” he sniffed as if he wasn’t acting like a spurned teenage girl. His gloved hands however shoved into a dark jar, giant in size and sitting in front of him. From the black gooey muck he pulled something out that looked like twisted roots, which grasped at him here and there only to be shaken off. Jacques took a hearty step back.

“Und here we have the other half! Hoo hoo,” he waved the muck at Jacques, the mud splattered the floor, “Nutritious fluids, to help it grow, now we simply,” he flipped it, and the gleam of metal under the muck shone for a moment, before the neck cap under Astor’s head met and with a click the BLU Spy was sealed to the device.

He cringed in disgust, “It’s disgusting! You could have cleaned it!” a long arm slapped outwards, smacking Josef across the jacket-front with slime and goo. Everyone froze.

“... WUNDERBAR! The experiment is a success!” Josef grabbed Jacques around the shoulders squeezing him hard, “There, I have completed your request, he can wander with supervision, no more cooping him up all day!” The look that Astor gave Jacques was-- discomforting at the very least. 

“Danke,” the other Frenchman growled with a timbre that said he had plans, ideas, and more. Spy waved a hand.

“I simply did not want to see you, trapped, I wouldn’t have liked it,” he didn’t want to be blamed for this, but the other spy was already getting his feet under him, sliding around effortlessly as he figured out how to make the hydraulics in his limbs contract and extend. Jacques didn’t like it. It made him uneasy for some reason.

“No, no, thank you soooo much my dear Doctor, Spy, I will not forget this,” the newly made monster cooed, slipping off the table and stretching his new limbs. The liquid muck was already slipping off him showing glints of smooth blue skin. He pulled his cig from his lips, the tips of the tentacle wetly wrapping around the cigarette, he puffed smoke warmly, “This will do nicely.”

“I’m, ah, glad to have helped monsieur Astor,” Jacques said, flashing the medic a bit of a look, “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He backed out of sight, turning on his heel at the last second to leave the room before something else could happen. This didn’t bode well for anyone to be honest, but he’d keep his mouth shut. No need to have the problem aim itself directly at him. He’d just go home, and very innocently set up some traps and block off any hole or vent an octopus could fit into.

It didn’t take long for his premonition to come true either. It was the sniper bringing back pieces of animals that had been torn to shreds that started people wondering if a wild coyote or something had gone rabid and begun tearing up the wildlife. Either that or one of their own teammates, after all as the scout had put it, they were a bunch of ‘paid psychos.’

Medic didn’t say anything to clear his name, and Spy shook his head to himself as the gossip ran through the lines like wildfire. Someone was doing this. Maybe Demo was a werewolf or something? Someone even suggested that Spy himself was a vampire which he’d laughed off so hard they probably thought it was true. But whatever it was causing trouble did not content itself with animals. Soon bodies in battle began to show up with twisted limbs, spines bent at awkward angles far more often than the healing dream team would have imagined.

Something big had been attacking the RED team mercs, and even Spy was at a loss when it seemed like the bodies had been twisted like washrags by something much bigger than the squid-shaped man he’d seen in the medic’s labs. The circular bruises though, they were significant in terms of clues. There weren’t many things running around with suction cups along their limbs, wrapping them around people’s necks if they drifted too close to sources of water.

Pyro had started avoiding the pits entirely, at first it was a fear of water everyone assumed that came with the job of a little firebug. They’d never been entirely comfortable near the wet and no one blamed them for it. But all of a sudden they were giving the place a wider and wider berth. Medic started disappearing for long bursts of time, looking more and more haggard as time went on. 

Once, late at night, Spy gazed over the edge of his balcony only to see the man quietly walking around, flashlight in hand, as if he were looking for something. He shut up extra tight that night, and ignored the noises in his walls, and refused to remove his mask even at his most solitary. He wouldn’t speak up, for one thing the creature had been avoiding him entirely. He’d never had a firsthand encounter with the beast everyone was speaking about these days in low whispers, and he planned for it to stick that way.

Medic was at the end of his rope though, he was getting more and more tired looking as time passed. Big wide swathes of darkness under his eyes, and the team laid low more often as he just couldn’t keep up on the field anymore. Guilt rang clearly in is eyes, no more clearly than when Heavy-- a favored victim of the creature it seemed-- turned up dead again on off time. Strangled, slowly by the looks of things. Neck snapped near the end, and hands torn to shreds by some serrated blades.

“We have to do something,” Spy said at last, catching the Medic off guard late that night as he prowled around, looking fruitlessly for Astor. He materialized from the shadows without the benefit of his watch and gazed up at the full moon over the two of them.

“It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” Josef groaned, pulling a gloved hand up to rub at his tired eyes, jostling his glasses to the side, “He wasn’t supposed to--”

“I know,” Jacques said patiently, stepping closer and touching his shoulder. A small amount of comfort really, “But soon even I will have to speak up on zis.”

“I-- what can I do?”

“I have someone I… trust in situations like zis. We shall take it to him, and hope he has an idea of what to do with an invincible creature. Ah… je suis désolé. If I had not asked you to make him more comfortable--” he sighed lightly clenching his gloved fist into the medic’s shoulder. 

Josef flinched slightly at the iron grip, “We’ll go to your friend.”

Jacques friend as it turned out was the engineer who had been there trying to help him since day one when he found him sick from respawn. It seemed just like the kind of problem he could understand and solve. After all, their invincibility on the field was partly because of the respawn systems themselves, and mechanical engineering was a specialty. Not that anyone needed to be told that. 

So the problem was offered up, and was solved with some good old fashioned Southern engineering. Their engineer took a quick squinty thought at the problem, standing between the two of them while he thought before turning away without a word. Jacques gave the medic a glance, but the doctor shrugged. Neither of them knew what to make of the man simply walking away from them except as a sign they should wait there. The Texan did the unexpected, at least to them. He headed over to the other team without a by your leave. 

“What does he think he’s doing?”

“I don’t know, zis is not exactly in ze manual. Ze man does whatever he pleases I fear,” Spy groaned, watching him hail the other engineer, the BLU who had been sprawled outside taking a nap in the sunshine. Spy snagged his weapon when the BLU did on instinct, knowing if he had to a headshot here would be sufficient, although the helmet might skew his shot. His protective instincts ignored that Dell would simply puff back in magic smoke, this was a mission, and seeing a shotgun raised to take off the man’s head put Spy on edge. But, staring down the barrel of such a weapon apparently didn’t particularly scare their own teammate, things went from tense to slowly jovial. 

The two engineers chatted, loudly but at the distance Jacques couldn’t particularly understand what they were saying. Hand gestures made it easier to though, with Dell wriggling his fingers under his chin aggressively like tentacles, and the other Texan slapped his thigh in amusement. The two of them in fact seemed to be getting on like good ol’ country boys were prone to do. Jacques fingered the grip of his gun nervously, and could feel Josef tipping slowly closer to him. This was against the rules. Technically, any minute now the announcer would rip them all a new one. Or the BLU would show his true colors and kill their team mate. They’d have to battle for his honor, or figure out something else to deal with the sewer menace they’d created if Dell gave up after being killed.

But none of that happened, and the BLU even looked over Dell’s shoulder and waved casually at the tense pair before he seemingly invited the RED back towards the buildings. They were metallic to offset the wood of the RED team, something Spy always found oddly cold and unwelcoming, but the buildings had the same set up. So when he tensed and Medic did so at his side, he knew they both understood the unusual trust the BLU was placing in the RED. After all, they had gone into the respawn building on BLU’s side. 

The sun shined, and grasshoppers sizzled in the weeds, with the faint banging of metal on metal, and continued chatter now echoing out of the metal silo they waited for an outcome. After a little while they drew a crowd, the scout slinking up curiously and plopping down in the dirt to look curiously between them and the building they were staring at. After a little bit he ran off, and soon he was joined by the sniper, who scratched his head and shooed the boy off.

“If you wanna know wot they’re up to, ask ‘em,” he sniffed, and legged it slowly back to the shade. The scout made a little snarling noise about losin’ the mystery in life, and having no curiosity. 

It took fifteen minutes more, the scout watching the Spy who didn’t spare him a glance and the Medic who kept nervously peeking over and trying to give an encouraging grin that seemed more wolfish than not. Jacques had, for the record, refused to answer his question about what they were doing some time ago when the boy’s patience ran out, knowing that if he told him he’d probably run over to the other side and do something stupid costing them their plan.

Then Dell trotted out of the building, patted his new compatriot on the shoulder, and grinning came back towards them.

“Wh-what was he doin’ over there! Hey! You didn’t tell me that someone was takin’ ya job as spy! What use are you gonna be when he’s got ‘em in his pocket! Hey I’m talkin’ ta y--” The scout rumbled to a halt at the gun in his face instead of Dell’s and threw his hands up in the air, “Ain’t even worth talkin’ ta ya fuckers sometimes. Jeez.” He took off, slouching and shoving his hands in his pockets while complaining wretchedly about the life he led, and how people just didn’t get him, and how he was just being friendly. They ignored him.

Dell mopped some sweat from the sun off his brow and smiled at them, “Got ‘im.” That was it, all their worries mopped up in 15 minutes from a man whose motto was ‘more guns’ and hadn’t raised a single barrel, “I just had ‘em force a meat collection on his current position from his biocharts. hell of a thin’ to find ‘em but he thought they were a glitch anyways. So now,” he made a gesture with his gloved hands, “Poof, an’ he’s respawn grist. All better.” 

He brushed dirt off his red overalls and sniffed, rubbing under his nose with one gloved finger hiding a wider smile at the look they were giving him, “Shucks. Not sure why you folks don’t ask us types about them systems more often. I ain’t the one who made it, but you kin be sure I’ll figure out of a way ta use it. Now if you don’t mind I’m gonna go have me a beer and take a gosh durned octopus free rest. Tentaspies, my sweet bottom. Next time ya’ll wanna create somethin’ make me a beer cozy that follows me ‘round the field.”

Engie pushed past them mildly, and both Jacques and Josef deferred to his passing. Up until medic nervously spoke up, “Ah, this means Herr BLU Spy has his memories of his time spent here back now.” Spy groaned softly, and rubbed his eyes feeling pressure growing behind them. This headache wasn’t over by a long shot, but at least it wouldn’t get particularly worse.

That was what he thought though. They’d parted ways afterwards, the Medic thanking him and running off to thank the engineer for helping mop up his mess, probably with something fine to drink to be honest. The lot of them enjoyed a nice drink after all. A few nights passed in comfort, battle only slightly more annoying now that Astor knew their half of the battlefield inside out, and still hung around in the sewers as if he were reliving his days as a monster. At least after that no one found corpses with those strange bruises all over them, they’d been kind of creepy.

Sometime near the end of the week though the medic on the far team came out of his building with a device strapped to his back that had Josef staring like an angry hunting dog. A flick of the switch, and a ferocious grin from the other side and a blue version of the familiar red glow hit the battlefield. The team they’d been chewing up and spitting out suddenly healed in front of their eyes, and Spy sucked in a sharp breath from his hidden point high above everything. He looked back to see the reaction. RED Medic’s brow was throbbing, he could see it from there. He hadn’t seen the medic angry before, but now? He was livid with rage.  
His weapon snapped to his hand, the Medigun abandoned for both his needle gun and his bone saw. Their Soldier went down in a pile of guts when the healing beam was taken off him, but his sacrifice was apparently not in vain, because hurtling over him, surprising the other team, Josef slammed into the opposing Heavy standing between him and the BLU Medic. Several bullets from his needle gun went directly into the Heavy’s thick neck, followed by a severe gash to his face that reminded both teams that this Medic, although he’d changed styles to actually heal, was first and foremost a battle medic. 

A sniper with no business standing in the middle of the field trying to fight with his bushwhacker lost an arm, and the BLU scout was taken down mid-run with several needles sticking out of his spine, well placed and heavy with poisons. They flooded the boy’s spine and took him to the ground effortlessly with a quickly cut-off scream. He plowed forward towards the other medic, a snarl on his face making him look quite inhuman and solving the question once and for all why such a seemingly timid man had been drafted into this party of psychopaths.

A knife in his back, and a rematerializing spy stopped him inches from unleashing his rage on the other medic. Astor sneered at him, standing above the dying corpse and wiping the blade of his knife on his own pants, making another line showing how many kills he’d made that day. he’d settled at the most obvious point, realizing that he’d betrayed the man who just maybe had begun seeing the enemy as a friend despite anything else.

“Ah,” the man said softly watching Josef’s face contort in a snarl, ”Zat is how you say, game, set, match? Perhaps you will think of zis before you torture any of my teammates, and you’ll learn what you’ve lost.” He hissed the last words out, letting their Medic get past him onto the field while he neatened his tie, Josef’s eyes going dim and his body limp. It was clear Astor had severed his spine at such a point it took time for him to bleed out, time enough to give him this quiet angry message before before his cloaking flickered on. Jacques shook his head, he’d seen this coming. He’d finally gotten some kind of revenge on the man.

Josef took it to Mann Co. in a flurry of anger, sending in paperwork that cluttered the den for weeks while he made frequent loud calls at all hours of the day, looking harassed while he shouted into the phone, shaking plans in his fist while he tried to make someone listen. Frequent lapses into German, and curses all of them learned from just being nearby did nothing to help his case.

Mann Co. simply refused to do anything about it, industrial theft wasn’t something they were particularly worried about. It was part of the war after all, they had teams in other places stealing intel, and they knew it. So why did this medic think his own intel was so much more important than the parent company. There were no legal actions they could take in any case. The weapon hadn’t been patented, and honestly they were much better off for it all around and they told Josef he should be flattered by the obvious copy.

That said, they didn’t seem to be too worried about the morals and ethics of the battlefield themselves. Claiming that it was unfair for only using it on one battlefield, and tipping their hat to a mysterious benefactor, Mann Co. themselves began selling a cleaned up streamlined version of the device from their stores open to mercs in every little hovel of a base. Medics across the country were suddenly finding a new way to fight on the field thanks to Mann Co.’s very special Medi Gun. A brand new tool created for the merc on the go by the bright young minds of Mann Co. 

It was pretty obvious who had sold the designs to them for a profit. Between the sleek new design appearing far too early in the hands of the BLU team, before Josef even got an order in after swallowing his pride and realizing their gun had amped up the capabilities slightly and was less likely to fall apart. The taunts on the field made it pretty easy to figure out too, since Astor regularly floated by with a nasty word in Josef’s ear about losing his head, or being too stressed over other people getting ahead of him. it was as if the man’s newest mission was no longer excessive assassination, but to piss off their Medic as much as conceivably possible. 

Medic took to drinking at first, then would lock himself up with his brand new Medi Gun, whose fumes he’d begun to depend on for sedation when alcohol had too many negative effects that he could read loud and clear. His heavy tried to comfort him, and everyone understood what had really messed with the doctor. He’d been planning to use the money from selling his device to help people. His home, Jacques understood, was still war torn years later. He’d been hoping to recoop some losses, to help families he knew were in need. He was already doing a lot with is Mann Co. salary, but he’d thought he could have his name on this. On this new huge invention that could possibly change the world. He’d been sort of laughed out as a doctor back home, something no one would meet his eyes when he admitted, and he thought this was his chance. Everything however, went to the other scoundrel and Jacques… didn’t particularly like it. So he decided to help.

“Josef?” Jacques asked, slipping over to the man while he sat in his office staring at a wall. It’d been a pretty emotional blow all told, and they could regularly find the man settled in that room waiting for something, slowly stroking over one of his doves in what seemed to be a state of deep thought. The medic jolted at his name, and flickered his pale blue eyes over to the spy intruding on his territory.

“Ja, mein freund?” He sighed, tipping his chair so Spy could see several doves had taken roosting spots on his person, a few snuggled on his shoulders for comfort, with another lodged in his hands giving him a beady eyed look that spoke of too much intelligence. Spy made a mental note to ask about whether there’d been further experiments on the birds, and just decided the obvious queen bee Archimedes was probably possessed by a demon. It made enough sense to him anyways. 

“I have an idea,” he began, playing with his own fingertips as he began laying out the concept he’d worked a few nights trying to even put it in terms he could explain, “I cannot particularly return your plans to you, but I thought zat, ah… perhaps you could use zem to make something new. You could turn around and sell ze new idea, get your name on it zis time. Derivative, but… there.”

Josef blinked and Spy took it as encouragement, “Ze medikits, on ze field. You’ve told us zey are fairly potent chemicals. Zey take forever to work, and zey are not as effective as your gun mon ami.” He cast a dramatic hand to his forehead, sighing as if it really were such a great trial to bandage oneself, and apply ointment that worked oddly quickly, although not quickly enough.

“You would have to dose people with the cocktail to have it work, of course, but ze long term effects worry me. Perhaps, you could design a medikit that could function similar to your gun. One zat, ah…” he started speaking more confidently, excited. Josef watched his hands move as if he were glazed over in though, “One zat when opened functions like a bomb! Si? Exploding ze healing energy to make us move faster, to be stronger on ze field!” He flicked his fingers hard, “We do not have time to fiddle with bandages, when you, Josef, could revolutionize ze war once again!” He slammed a fist onto a table, and looked the other man in the eye, waiting for his response.

“We… could…” He started, fingertips digging into the feathers of the bird in his lap, “Und we could save Mann Co. money, on chemicals. They could recharge my boxes,” he started, the gears obviously beginning to turn. Spy tried not to look overly pleased with himself as the pain lines in the man’s face slowly wilted in the face of an exciting new prospect.

“You could! You could make this war go faster, save more lives, you could miniaturize ze device, and if you could figure out how much chemicals one had to take for ze boxes to have an effect you could take it outside zis war mon ami.” He breathed in Spy’s words, and he cast a wild smile on the doctor, “Imagine. Normal people, not us experimental folk, could be cured of diseases and wounds elsewhere. You could save lives! You could change medicine as much as war!”

“It wouldn’t work for, cancer, und… some big things, but,” he looked dazed and Spy very quickly filed that note away, “I could. I could!” He threw himself to his feet, grin spreading as his birds fluttered away from him in terror, causing a snow of loose feathers and the whirr of wings fading into the darkness for better perches. 

Josef grabbed Jacques’ shoulders, shaking him lightly, “Und I can sell this! To Mann Co. with a temporary license! Did you know they never even added their name to my gun? Hoo! They gave it away! They could have had so much more with the ubers and the guns. Oh mein freund, I could do so much!”

He pushed past across the room, suddenly filled with energy after his long sulk, shoving wrappers and trash off his table to get down to the paperwork, where he set to scribbling with a pencil end.

“If I move this, and--” He disappeared into the work smoothly, and Spy suddenly became aware that he was no longer needed. His little stunt to help put the man back on track had gone amazingly smoothly. The man was in his own little world now, and so he took his leave with a soft smile on his lips. The whisper of wings in the rafters behind him spoke of hope.

It didn’t take him long at all to make the machine portable, it was his child after all. He disappeared for days, and their battle rankings too a hit, but at the end he brought the device directly to Jacques. He was secretive, the spy couldn’t blame him, but he trusted him. In return for that trust, Jacques put a firm hand down and got him in contact with Ms. Pauling before it ever hit the battlefield. The idea of getting around paying Mann Co. for an upgrade to the battlefield appealed to her secretary and business sense, and working together, she did what she did best. She made things work, and fought for the men who looked to her to make things alright.

With Ms. Pauling at the legal helm, the device went through patents, quickly became whispered around the world, became sold at an amazing profit to Mann Co. on a temporary lease, and Josef’s name was plastered on the machines, tucked on the bottom side of every box. They worked like a charm on the battlefield, increasing everyone’s work threefold at the very least with the time saved. Mann Co. produced them en masse, every battle field being treated to the new devices, and Josef was rolling in the royalties. A small percentage of those funds even made it into the RED spy’s funds, despite a few soft protests. The medic wouldn’t hear of him denying him however, and Jacques was hardly dumb enough to reject a donation to his retirement fund.

Things settled back into a swing, Astor’s taunts stung a little less. Everyone did better on the field, and both of them had the warm contentment that came from making the world a little less shitty, while sticking it to assholes spitefully. It was… nice. Things were nice for a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Okay so, I broke 100k words on this thing, but the stuff I have yet to write is stuff I've gotta be in a mood to actually write. I've put it off for a while, and I think I'll be able to write some of the parts I was really annoyed with, which means I can finish the chapters that I need to do so this story can go live. I mean I have tons written, it's just that it's not exactly in order, so I have to write the connecting scenes and chapters. Things get a lot cooler when shit hits the fan, but I still have to fill in Spy's early days on the field and yadda yadda. SO while this is a slowly updating fic apparently, it's not abandoned. I'm just a slowbie. Thank you for sticking around and for all your comments! I love you guys and hope you'll continue to love Jacques!


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